


Tony Makes A Sandwich (For Someone Other Than Himself)

by PhenixFleur



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: FrostIron - Freeform, Loki needs a therapist, M/M, Pre-Slash, Redefining home, Sandwiches, Self-Isolation, Slow Build, Trust Issues, thor doesn't know how to use a microwave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenixFleur/pseuds/PhenixFleur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony just doesn't want a dead Asgardian demigod in his tower. That's the only reason. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tony Makes A Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally my first time writing for this fandom AND this pairing, so I'm still trying to find my bearings in terms of character voices. Not too much happens here I'm afraid; I still haven't decided whether to keep it as a one-shot or keep going on this train of thought. That's for later, though! Concrit greatly appreciated, it's the only way I'll get better!
> 
> Edit: So clearly, I decided to keep going. Do I have any idea WHERE I'm going? Kinda. We'll see.

It's late afternoon on the fifth day of  _forced cohabitation_ \-- which is how he refers to their new living arrangement to basically everyone  _but_ Thor, who'd just seemed so very overjoyed at how enthusiastic his 'treasured brothers in arms' were at the prospect of his psychotic adopted brother living with them as part of some rehabilitation scheme that only made sense at the bottom of a bottle of scotch -- that it occurs to Tony that he has yet to actually see his unwilling and reclusive houseguest  _eat_ like a normal person.

Well, not  _person_ , god or demigod or whatever, but isn't eating a common and necessary practice for all lifeforms? At least he assumes so, from the way Thor generally consumes more than the rest of the team combined in the span of a single meal (were money an actual issue for Tony Stark, of all people, he'd be concerned about literally being eaten out of house and home).

Perhaps it's not such a bad thing that Loki doesn't take after his brother in that regard.

Regardless, as the first week begins to draw to a close he finds himself  _just_   _slightly_ concerned by the fact that he has yet to see hide or hair of the guy since he was led in and escorted to his room strategically placed right next to his brother's (no way in hell was Tony giving him his own floor), trailing behind a  _way_ too cheerful Thor with an expression that suggested that he'd much rather be in jail back home far removed from socializing with the lesser species he'd attempted to subjugate only a few months before.

And really, maybe it's for the best that Loki has chosen to stay holed up in his room, instead of hanging around sneering or overusing the word 'mortals' or cackling while steepling his fingers together or whatever the fuck supervillains do on their off-time. He can't imagine that any socialization between himself and any of the others (aside from Thor, of course) would be cordial, recalling the meeting in which the idea was proposed in. He'd assumed Clint would need to be sedated, Natasha stone-faced beside him while Bruce grew unnervingly pale, clearly struggling to silence the Other Guy reeling at the thought of living with the 'puny god' he'd dented the penthouse floor with. Only Steve, good old golden-hearted Steve who somehow had yet to be completely corrupted by the grime of the twenty-first century did not seem adverse to the idea, especially given that Thor assured them that his brother would be essentially harmless, the  _majority_  of his magic sealed away -- Tony didn't like that word,  _majority_ , because as far as he could tell it had barely taken any magic at all for the bastard to throw him out of his own window -- and incapable of straying too far from his side.

"Everyone deserves a second chance."

"True, but that sentiment is generally reserved for shoplifting and drunkenly hitting on other people at Christmas parties in front of your significant other instead of attempted genocide," Tony had pointed out casually, earning glares from Steve and Thor and a grim smile of approval from the seething Clint.

In the end, it was the plaintive pleading of Thor combined with an explanation about diplomatic relations with Asgard from Fury that Tony ignored most of that won out. Clint was still against the idea, obviously, and Natasha remained stoic enough that it was impossible to actually tell whether she cared one way or the other, but Bruce, having found himself branded a monster so often before was clearly softened somewhat by Thor's retelling of his brother discovering his heritage and going batshit crazy as a result. Despite owning the fucking tower in question, somehow Tony didn't get a vote.

So it's not a huge deal that nothing has been destroyed as the result of the inevitable skirmish that will occur once Loki emerges and turns his poisonous tongue on the wrong person; aside from Thor casually dropping hints that his brother is still alive things have been as peaceful as they can, with two assassins, the Hulk, the god of thunder, a super soldier, and a  _genius billionaire playboy philanthropist_  sharing the same living space. He and Steve butt heads, Clint startles people, Natasha issues silent death threats and Thor...is Thor, with everything that entails.

And Loki hides in his room, not forgotten but at least not at the forefront of their minds.

Tony isn't quite sure why this bothers him.

Perhaps it is mere curiosity. The idea that the force that attempted (and came rather close to _succeeding_ ) to bring New York to its knees, killed well over 100 people and injured countless others, that _threw him through his own window and no he's not going to get over it thank you very much_ \- is living in his tower, sequestered away in his room with no real supervision, likely plotting some form of vengeance or up to something else nefarious is unnerving. Supposedly Thor is keeping tabs on him, but it's obvious his little brother has him wrapped around his finger, from his impassioned plea to save him from rotting away in jail the way he deserves to his willingness to take on babysitting a convicted criminal for an indeterminate amount of time.

But if it were merely apprehension at his presence, wouldn't allowing him to starve to death be an easy solution to the problem?

Whatever the reason, he's concerned, and that concern leads to making a sandwich for a disgraced Asgardian demigod who will likely throw it back in his face upon delivery on a lazy Sunday afternoon while his teammates are who knows where. And that's a shame, because as sandwiches go it's rather a masterpiece.

After all, he's  _Tony_   _Stark_  and he settles for nothing less than perfection, even when crafting a  _sandwich_.

At first he's stumped, having little idea what Asgardians eat aside from what Thor eats, which appears to be pretty much everything, in ridiculous quantities. He's watched  _Thor_ make a sandwich before, and that resulted in the disappearance of an entire block of cheese and close to a whole pound of roast beef; given how slender Loki is he wouldn't be surprised if his eating habits are an exact contrast. Which isn't much to go on, but it's enough.

Rye bread, lightly toasted, roasted garlic mayo, guacamole and thinly sliced provolone atop a thick stack of roasted red peppers and avocado slices. This takes entirely too long to get  _just right_ , even with the assistance of his various appliances, and by the time his masterpiece lies on a plate before him in all of its handcrafted glory it occurs to him that he  _kinda_  doesn't want to hand it over to this ungrateful bastard.

It also occurs to him that he has no idea whether this is even a good idea or not.  _Majority,_  Thor said _._  Not all.

He should have made a point of assigning Loki a room with no windows.

The tower is strangely quiet; albeit peaceful. He briefly wonders if he missed the memo for some team meeting or the other or if part of New York is on fire; a quick scan via JARVIS reveals that of his other housemates only Bruce is there, likely holed up in his lab; if this interaction doesn't end in his horrible death or dismemberment Tony makes a note to go check in on him. Thor appears to have stepped out as well, the knowledge of which is both unnerving and enticing: at least he'll get to see what Loki is like without his brother around to drive him into a sullen rage. He's also not ready for Thor to completely misinterpret his actions, which could be extremely awkward.

As he makes his way to Thor's floor, sandwich and a bottle of water in tow, he runs through the litany of reasons why this is probably a bad idea. There are a lot of them, but none speak loudly enough to force him to turn around and head back upstairs and eat his handiwork alone at the bar, preferably with some form of alcohol, because alcohol is excellent company that's far less likely to either kill him (at least not directly) or insult him. All too soon he's standing in front of Loki's door, not too sure of how to proceed.

After a brief moment of deliberation, he decides to take the most direct approach: pounding on the door enthusiastically, because this is crazy, and he's probably crazy too, so why the fuck not. "Hey Reindeer Games, open up!"

It's not surprising that the greeting is met with silence, and the door remains shut. Huh. Perhaps he  _is_ dead in there after all and poor Thor's suffering from a psychotic break laced with denial. "JARVIS, he's in there, right? Please don't tell me I have the corpse of an Asgardian demigod on my hands."

"Mister Laufeyson is alive and well in his quarters, sir," JARVIS responds dryly; sometimes Tony wonders why he thought giving him the capability for sarcasm was a brilliant idea. Oh yeah, because it was.

More knocking, with little respect for whether the demigod is merely asleep; any asshole still sleeping at four in the afternoon after Tony Stark has gone through the trouble of making them lunch deserves to be woken up. "You know I can just get JARVIS to open the door for me, right? I'm not going to let you starve yourself to death in  _my_ tower."

"And were I not being forced to reside in  _your tower_ , my wellbeing would be none of your concern."

The door opens only a crack, just enough for Tony to catch a glimpse of its inhabitant: black hair much longer than he remembers, sharp green eyes set against pale skin that hasn't seen sunlight for awhile. If possible, he's thinner than before as well, lending further credence to the  _oh God he's actually trying to starve himself to death why hasn't Thor noticed this yet_ theory. He doesn't  _look_ dangerous, at least not visibly; instead he just looks tired. And irritable. "What do you want, Stark?"

Pause. "I made you a sandwich." This announcement is met with silence as well, as expected, because Loki is an ungrateful little shit and he should just turn around and go back upstairs and leave him to stew in his pit of existential despair or whatever's going on in that room. "It's a pretty good one, too, if I may say so myself. I mean,  _I_ made it, so it's probably the best sandwich you're likely to get around these parts. Earth. Midgard. Whatever the hell you guys call it."

"Midgard," Loki says faintly; his eyes narrow, lips curving into a sneer. "And what, pray tell, compelled you to go through  _this_  much trouble for my sake?" He emphasizes the  _this_ with the ignorance of a man that doesn't understand the fine art of roasting red peppers  _just so_ , but he's from way out of town so Tony decides to let it go. Also he hasn't flung open the door and killed him with a dagger or something yet, so at least he's making  _some_ headway.

"Dunno." Tony shrugs, as if the gesture is completely meaningless. "I haven't seen you leave your hive since you got here, and I know you have no idea how to use the toaster or the microwave. Figured you'd be pretty hungry right about now."

Loki considers this for a moment before responding, in a tone that suggests that Tony isn't too far off the mark. "My so-called  _brother,_ " spitting the word as if it's poison in his mouth, "Has brought me some of your fare. I find it highly distasteful."

"If Thor made it, I'm surprised he hasn't been bringing you charcoal." This is very true, and Tony's had to repair the microwave at least five times since the god of thunder moved in. He's never seen a grown man attempt to heat a sealed can of beef stew in a microwave before, but there's a first time for everything.

The mean yet well-deserved insult is well received; Loki's sneer softens a bit. "If I partake of this concoction will you go away and leave me be?"

Tony shrugs. "Maybe. I can't make any promises."

"Very well." The door opens enough to allow Tony to enter, the precious sandwich in tow. He's surprised by how immaculate it is; for the lair of a (former?) supervillain, there's a surprising lack of...well, anything that suggests that Loki's been up to anything more than being a recluse. There are a couple of stacks of books on the desk, and some writing implements, but that seems to be it for personal effects. No shiny horned helmet or armor or glowy sticks used to take peoples' minds in sight. The blinds are drawn, allowing very little light.

"You know, you should open those. Great view of the city. You're missing out."

The sneer is back. "I've seen more than enough of it."  _When I tried to destroy it_  is implicit but Tony's not ready to go there. Yet. He accepts the sandwich and the bottle of water without comment; it's a good thing Tony wasn't expecting a 'thank you' because one isn't forthcoming. Loki seats himself at his desk, carefully moving a handful of papers so he can sit the plate down. Tony locates and pulls up a chair beside him -- not too close, because things have gone relatively well thus far and he doesn't want them to sour so quickly. Even still, Loki doesn't seem too pleased at the intrusion into his bubble of personal space. "Do you intend to monitor every bite that goes into my mouth, Stark?"

"Not all of them, no, cause that's creepy. I just want to make sure you aren't going to throw it out or something."

"Far be it from me to damage your sizeable yet fragile ego by rejecting your handiwork without cause."  _Ouch_ , but the verbal slight ceases to matter as much as The Sneer fades after the first hesitant bite of the sandwich. It takes all of Tony's willpower not to actually fist pump in triumph as the demigod chews slowly and thoughtfully, an appraising expression that he has to be completely unaware of on his face.

Still, he can't keep himself from grinning, as if he's won... _something._ He isn't entirely sure what.

Loki notices this and scowls, although that doesn't detract him from polishing off the rest of the sandwich with a fervor that's faintly reminiscent of his 'so-called' brother. He ignores Tony's radiant expression, uncapping the bottle of water to take a sip. "Do not flatter yourself so, Stark. It was adequate, nothing more."

The words are harsh, but  _he's deliberately avoiding eye contact_ while saying them which speaks volumes.

"I'll take what I can get," Tony says, happily; it's enough to tease an actual smile out of Loki, albeit a small one.

He's expecting the demigod to tell him to get the hell out, now, but Loki remains silent, observing him with an intensity that  _should_  creep him out. Somehow it doesn't, and Tony is mildly surprised to hear himself say, casually, "You know, you don't have to stay cooped up in here all the time."

"I do not delude myself that my company is desired here, Stark." The response has a touch of acid to it. "This was my... _Thor's_ idea, and I can't imagine it was well received."

As true as the statement is, guilt blossoms in Tony's chest, somewhere to the left of his arc reactor. 

 _Where the hell did that come from? He tried to destroy your home and murder you, he doesn't deserve a pity party!_ "You'd rather be in jail back on Asgard?"

Loki shrugs. With a delicate motion he sweeps back a lock of hair, revealing a strange silver earring with a vivid green stone set in it, etched with what has to be runes of some kind. "It does not matter where I am, Stark." Wearily, and the little blossom of confusing guilt begins to bud. For a moment the green eyes are unfocused, the mask slipping to reveal something  _human_ , something that isn't megalomaniac or haughty sharp-tongued fallen prince. Something familiar. And in an instant it fades, eyes sharpening once more and narrowed, The Sneer in place. "That is not to say I regret my actions, for I do not."

"Of course you don't," Tony mutters, bitterly, but not too much. He's still puzzling over whatever he saw, intentional or not. It suggests that there's quite a bit more to Loki than  _just_ a murderous asshole. There is something damaged there, and Tony is, perhaps to his own detriment, curious. He's also way too sober for this level of introspection.

The exasperated glare being leveled at him is a clear invitation to get the hell out, so Tony retrieves the empty plate and stands to leave. "I stand by what I said earlier. You don't get to starve yourself on my watch."

"Your watch?" Loki looks up at him incredulously. "Are you to assume responsibility for me too?"

"No dead gods in my tower, Reindeer Games."

"I am a  _god_  Stark. I do not require nourishment on the same basis as you  _mortals._ " There it was; he couldn't go one conversation without reverting to Superior Asshole mode. But... "However...I would not be adverse to another  _sandwich_ , should you be so inclined."

The statement hangs in the air between them, Loki pointedly staring at his desk and Tony gawking at him in an unbecoming manner.

Well.

"I might be persuaded to recreate that masterpiece," Tony says slyly; he's playing with fire and fuck knows he'll probably get burned, but when has that ever stopped him? "If you ask nicely."

The resulting murderous glare sends him skittering out of the room before he finds out the true meaning of  _majority_ , but he swears he hears a whispered "Thank you" on his way out.

He makes a mental note to start stocking red peppers and avocados in the kitchen; that he's grinning like an idiot on his way to Bruce's floor is something else that he files away for later.

It's just another puzzle to solve.


	2. Tony Makes Another Sandwich (And Pisses Loki Off)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's just curious about his new housemate. That's all it is. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got inspiration and decided to run with it. Shorter chapter than before, but more to come. Concrit appreciated! Thank you for reading!

Tony Stark isn't used to taking care of other people. Or personal gestures in general, for that matter.

That isn't to say he doesn't  _care,_  about the handful of individuals that have either invaded his life (and become a makeshift family, of sorts) or spend the majority of their time running themselves ragged organizing it _._  He just expresses it in ways that are simultaneously more and less intimate than simple meal preparation. Arrows with special properties for Clint, enough sugary snacks in the main kitchen to enable Thor's recently acquired bad habit, whatever Bruce needs for his research. Anything Pepper as much hints at, because that's a special bubble of guilt that has yet to dissipate fully, although she seemingly holds no ill will over what might have been. It's easier to buy things, or craft them in his workshop -- no less hands on, in some cases, but less organic than something handmade.

So yeah, the sandwich thing is kind of weird, at least for him.

Especially since he's pretty sure that Loki falls into neither the 'makeshift family' nor 'close friends that put up with a fair amount of bullshit' category.

It starts off innocently enough, if the word can even applied. Two days later, when the other inhabitants of the tower are occupied with their own affairs, he whips up another sandwich (exactly as before, no corners cut) and after double-checking to make sure Thor is nowhere in the vicinity, delivers it to his as of yet reclusive brother's room. There's no real need for  _absolute secrecy_ , not really; it isn't as if what he's doing is wrong.

He just doesn't feel like explaining himself just yet.

As before, he nearly has to break the door down to elicit a response from the room's sole inhabitant, peppered liberally with insults and bullshit threats that he probably can't back up should Loki decide to take him seriously.

When the door  _does_  open after a few minutes of verbal abuse, those vivid green eyes reflect what appears to be disbelief for a quarter of a second before hardening into their characteristic irate glare. Tony's starting to think Pissed Off is Loki's default state. With his black hair vaguely unkempt and a sour expression on his face, the demigod looks like a recently awakened housecat. It would probably be  _cute_  if such a word could be applied to someone capable of killing him. 

"I'll have you know," Loki says slowly, his voice underlaid with a threat that doesn't go unnoticed, "Your manner of announcing your presence is the single most infuriating instance of social interaction I've ever been subjected to. That's quite an accomplishment, Stark."

A wide grin blossoms across Tony's face. "Is there an official award for this or something? Should I be proud?"

"No."

"Too late."

Loki exhales, the deep, long suffering gesture of someone rapidly losing their patience. "I assume you're here under the misguided assumption that I'm starving myself, although I can and have assured you that I am not."

"You can't blame me for getting the wrong idea when you're the one hiding in your room moping like a teenage girl after a prom rejection." Loki looks understandably confused by the reference, which at least confirms that either organized dances are not a thing on Asgard, or all rejections are followed up with violence. "That went right over your head, didn't it?"

Loki is clearly becoming exasperated, but he's also eying the sandwich in Tony's hands with poorly feigned disinterest. "As before, if I eat it will you go away? Or at least  _cease_  your incessant chattering?"

"Probably for the former, latter's a pipe dream." Tony's grin widens. "It's part of my charm."

Loki rolls his eyes, but he steps back to allow Tony to enter, snatching the plate from him in the process. Tony takes the resulting loss of interest to survey his surroundings. Nothing has changed, of course; the desk is still neatly stacked with books, the bed made, floor clear of shed clothing or other effects. Seriously, what the hell does this guy  _do_  all day? Loki has his back to him, presumably devouring his lunch as if it's the first time he's eaten in days (and it probably is); for the first time Tony notices just how different he looks from the nutjob that leveled a good bit of New York months ago. The disheveled hair, dipping past his shoulders now, slender form clad in actual clothing that isn't a mishmash of leather and gold: black trousers and a short-sleeved green tunic. He looks  _normal_ , and that's not necessarily a good thing. If Tony's not careful he'll let his guard down and forget he's dealing with a  _psychopath_  and  _mass murderer._ Right.

Tearing his eyes away from his subconscious appraisal of the demigod, he continues exploring the guest room. He can't really call it  _Loki's_  room because as of yet there's no personal touch to it. Even the flatscreen TV set in the wall has clearly never been used, the tiny remote still attached to the wall beside it.  _Really?_   "Oh come on!" Loki glances over his shoulder; he has a slight smear of guacamole on his cheek that Tony neglects to inform him of. "Look at this!" He gestures wildly at the flatscreen. "This is state of the art technology,"  _like everything else around here,_ he refrains from tacking on, "And you haven't even touched it!"

Loki huffs, turning to face him with his arms folded across his chest. "I have no interest in what you pitiful creatures so enthusiastically refer to as entertainment," he says, haughtily. 

Tony can't really argue with the statement, but he's trying to make a point. "Okay, sure, reality TV is pretty much shit, but it's not all Honey Boo Boo and Bridezillas. No, look at this." He snatches the remote and flicks the TV on; the first image that graces the screen appears to be the Jerry Springer Show, which kinda blows a gaping hole in his argument. "You've got access to every station on the planet, not to mention On Demand. Don't tell me you've never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark. That's right up your world-dominating alley."

The expression of confusion has settled on Loki's face once more, and he remains silent as Tony continues, oblivious. "One of these days, I'm gonna bring popcorn, and we're gonna watch the first three Indiana Jones movies. Not the fourth. That never happened."

"Why?" The question isn't voiced in an irritable manner for once. The demigod's body language (tense, guarded) suggests mistrust rather than open aggression; Tony carefully closes the distance between them until he's standing only a few feet away. "Why what?"

" _Why_  are you here?" Loki asks again, frustration creeping into his tone. "Why are you concerned with how I spend my time? What business is it of yours?"

It's a good question, and one Tony has yet to turn over in his mind fully. Simple curiosity, for the most part -- he's admitted  _that_ much. Loki is something he doesn't understand, and Tony Stark likes to understand. He likes to analyze, he likes to explore. That curiosity and willingness to delve beyond the surface of things drives him to create, to push the limits of what's established. So yeah, he can admit that. He's curious about the recent addition to Stark Tower. 

If there's anything more than that, he's neither willing to acknowledge or address it. Not out loud. "Honestly? I have no idea."

This answer is not satisfactory; The Sneer returns in full force. "Truly? I'd hardly expect a man of your famed intelligence to act with such recklessness without reason."

Smug bastard. He hasn't seen reckless. Tony Stark is all  _about_   reckless, and he makes the split decision to prove it by stepping forward until he's standing right beside the demigod, staring down at his smug ass face with an affected coldness that his racing heart gives the lie to. "You want the truth? Because you're  _interesting_." That wipes the sneer clean off Loki's face, which is a triumph in itself; that it's not immediately replaced with another mask is yet another win.  _This_ , this unguarded vulnerability is what he's after; the proof that the  _something_ he caught a glimpse of the last time they spoke is there. And because he's already doing something extraordinarily stupid by getting in a demigod's face, Tony takes it a step further, reaching up to wipe away the smear on Loki's cheek with his thumb. "You're an enigma wrapped in who knows how many layers of potentially psychotic, anger issue-riddled, self-satisfied asshole, and  _perhaps_  I just want to see what's at the bottom."

Apparently he can now add 'Rendering the God of Lies and Mischief speechless' to his ever-expanding list of accomplishments. 

Loki neither shoves him away or punches him in the face, both of which he's expecting, although he does shrink away from the hand at his cheek. Green eyes meet warm brown, the former clearly searching the latter for the lie and, finding nothing, look away with something akin to distress. When the demigod does speak once more, his voice is strangely subdued. "You will not like what you find, Tony Stark."

"I'm an inventor," Tony says proudly. "I find value in things that appear to be worthless. Or broken."

The words are a catalyst. Loki scoots his chair back, leaping to his feet and snarling. " _You_  are an overly optimistic fool, blinded by sentiment. I do not need your  _pity_ , Stark!"

"Good." Tony retrieves the discarded plate and brushes past him, smirking. "Because I wasn't offering any."

At this point it seems very likely that he and the chair that Loki is gripping are about to become better acquainted, so Tony excuses himself without further commentary. It's not the best note to leave things on, but he's gotten what he wants, for now. 

As he makes his way back to the kitchen, heart still thrumming out of control behind his arc reactor, it occurs to him that when they aren't narrowed with rage and hatred, Loki's eyes are actually rather pretty.

This is not a thought that he dwells on for very long.


	3. Tony Inches Towards Friendship (In a Grudging Sort of Way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's making progress in whatever it is he's trying to do with the reclusive demigod living in his tower. He just isn't quite sure what that is yet, or why he's so invested in it.

As they will (in the face of persistence, and an  _interested_  Tony Stark is nothing but), a pattern develops over the next week. It's a loose pattern, because there are no set visitation hours, no schedule as to  _when_  he's going to drop in on Loki bearing a peace offering and proceed to irritate him into eating it. He just does, whenever, for however long the demigod can tolerate him before flying into a rage and telling him to fuck right off (in far less crude terms, of course). 

And nothing changes, at least initially. The room itself remains tidy, bedclothes neatly folded and few visible signs of life, although the contents of the desk shift back and forth -- on the third visit Tony comes bearing a hefty history book on which the plate is precariously balanced, and  _although_  Loki scoffs at it and assures him that he could care less about the dull history and pithy achievements of a planet of barely evolved apes the book joins the pile. Aside from the books and writing implements the rest of the room remains untouched, in almost exactly the same state as he left it, no matter how much time has passed. It drives Tony crazy, the lack of activity and life; blank walls and silence and an alarming lack of flashing lights have never been his thing, and never will. The tower  _itself_  is a testament to that. Just being in Loki's room for half an hour strikes him with the overwhelming urge to go find a loud, raucous, totally out of control party full of _very_ drunk, _very_ stupid people clad in bright, shimmering second skins and proceed to get _very_ drunk with them. He's not expecting the guy to hang posters or start a pile of discarded boxers or paint runes all over the door, but this is ridiculous. 

As for the room's inhabitant, he remains fairly static as well, at least physically. Always the same outfit or a slight variation of such (apparently green and black are his signature colors), obvious bedhead (or apathy 'do, which is the more likely scenario), and sour, silently seething air of a large black cat unceremoniously awakened from a long nap. It's not too bad of a comparison, actually -- aside from being permanently pissed off, or at least teetering precariously on the edge of it, and liable to bite at any given moment Loki is very catlike in his limited range of behavior. He doesn't move very often while Tony's there, generally settling at his desk and either ignoring him altogether or watching him from his vantage point with those ever judging green eyes. When he does (once to pointedly snatch the remote from Tony turning on Teen Mom for the express purpose of fucking with him, betraying that he's known how to use the TV all along), his motions are graceful, as if every step is calculated prior to being carried through. It's fascinating, yet it puts Tony on edge, considering that beneath the graceful, feline veneer is the potential for destruction and the as of yet undetermined threat of what  _majority_  means. He's had yet to actually witness Loki using any magic,  but that word still nags away at him. It's enough to keep him on his toes no matter how comfortable he gets.

He's also extremely easy to rub the wrong way. Actually, Tony wonders if it's possible to  _not_  rub him the wrong way. The first three visits all end in an unspoken threat of physical violence; it's only a matter of time before that chair gets thrown across the room and Tony has to replace it. And it's the  _smallest shit,_ too -- anything Loki perceives as pity (and Tony sure as hell doesn't pity him) or a personal insult is likely to drive him into a rage. This is highly unfortunate, because while Tony is charismatic, tact is not one of his strong points. So most of their conversations, at least the first few, are either startlingly one-sided or devolve into Loki losing his cool and kicking him out. It's frustrating and probably pointless, and most of the time Tony leaves just as pissed off. Stubborn jerkwad.

He's not sure why he keeps coming back, he really isn't.

But he does.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, things change. Most certainly not drastically, because Loki clearly still hates him, and he still thinks Loki is an unmitigated asshole. But the delay between their stilted conversations and the inevitable collapse of such grows longer. 

And then on the eighth visit, it doesn't come at all.

 

It's a fairly pleasant Saturday afternoon, and Tony's making his way to Thor's floor after confirming that, once again, no one's around. It's been a strangely uneventful week in terms of violent crime and random city-destroying supervillain appearances (maybe everyone's on vacation), and he's glad -- it would be kind of awkward dashing out on Loki in the middle of a visit, or getting caught red-handed standing outside his door. It won't last forever, he knows, but that's something to worry about later. 

Ever since the sixth visit his usual routine of pounding on the door hasn't been necessary; a simple knock suffices, and today is no different. 

What is different is that the door is already cracked by a thin sliver; before he even raises his free hand to knock on it Loki's voice, strangely calm, rings out from within. "That is not necessary, Stark. You may enter."

Well that's new. 

"Someone's feeling social today," Tony comments as he pushes his way in, closing the door behind him. He's then greeted by his second surprise of the day; the blinds are open, flooding the room with brilliant afternoon sunlight. The demigod in question is standing in front of them, gazing out at the city below. He glances over his shoulder briefly, acknowledging Tony with a nod before turning back to the window.

"Not quite. You are not well-acquainted with stealth." The words are matter of fact, sans their usual hint of irritation. Even Loki's body language suggests a departure from its usual tension. "I heard you coming."

"It could have been Thor." He doesn't mention any other possibilities because Tony's positive Thor and himself are the only residents of the tower who have paid Loki any mind since his arrival (aside from suspicious rumbling and barely veiled death threats uttered over the breakfast table, that is.)  

"You are lighter on your feet than that hulking oaf," Loki hisses; the break in his placid demeanor lasts for only a moment before he continues, still facing the window. "But not enough to avoid detection."

Tony doesn't bother arguing; he's well aware of the fact that stealth isn't his deal, regardless of the setting. After placing the plate on the table, he crosses the room to stand beside Loki, noting that the demigod doesn't flinch as he usually does when approached. "You know, I was beginning to think you were a vampire now or something. Or having an emo phase."

"Your people rebuild quickly," Loki says, ignoring the statement. "I am forced to admit that it's an admirable quality."

This is not necessarily true. New York is well on its way to recovery, but the vast amount of property damage -- numerous businesses, some of which have yet to fully recover or have already folded, a couple of schools, a clinic, public offices; damage to the subway and streets that rendered traffic in the area at all hours of the day an unnavigable nightmare for well over two months, not to mention the lives either directly or indirectly torn apart by the Chitauri attack...what Loki is seeing from the window is several months of surface repair. Tony doubts he understands the gravity of the situation, or how far it truly reaches, and that irks him. "The scars run deeper than a few city blocks," Tony informs him; he's a bit surprised by the sudden chill in his voice. He's still not ready to tackle this, the reality of how he's acquainted with the demigod. The bitterness rises in his chest unbidden, though, and his next statement is nastier than intended. "So is  _that_  why you're being a hermit? Scared of the backlash when the public discovers you're not behind bars somewhere?"

Loki stiffens but remains steady. He sounds almost amused by the idea. "Scared?" He turns to stare at Tony; there's the ghost of a smile on his lips. Not a kind one. "It is _not_ fear that drives me to avoid confrontation, Stark, but if that misconception satisfies your curiosity then by all means."

_Asshole._ The part of Tony struggling to hold on to his ire begins to falter beneath the part of him that wants to keep Loki talking. "Then what is it? Apathy? Agoraphobia? Just not a city person? You gotta give me something, here."

"Agoraphobia?" Loki's brow furrows as he mouths the foreign word. "Is this some mortal ailment?"

"More like a psychological issue. Crippling fear of leaving one's home. You know, the kind of people that buy everything online and pay out the ass for grocery delivery service. Carry out all business transactions over Skype. It's kinda weird."

He isn't sure whether Loki really gets it, but he seems to understand well enough. "This is not my home," he says, sharply. 

"Place of dwelling, I don't know." Tony shrugs. "We're not going to have a philosophical discussion about the difference between a house and home. Too early, too sober."

Those eyes. Tony is pretty damn sure Loki's completely unaware of how sad they are for the briefest moment when he responds, flatly, "I have neither of which to speak, so there is little point."

_Well shit_.  _Right in the feels._ "So what is this?" Tony gestures to the room behind them. "A five star prison cell?"

Loki chuckles, but it's a harsh sound, and it doesn't reach his eyes. 

"The difference being that most convicted and incarcerated criminals don't have private bathrooms, expensive devices, and their run of the most expensive, most technologically advanced building in New York City." Tony sighs. "Also, what did you expect?" 

Having apparently gotten his fill of sunshine for the day, Loki reaches over to flick the blinds shut. "Truly? To be left to my own devices so that I might reflect upon my failure in solitude." 

"Is that really what you want?"  _To be abandoned?_ "Or is that another lie?"

Loki pauses, eyes brightening and flickering mischievously. "You're learning, Stark."

He turns his attention to the sandwich Tony's brought for him, leaving Tony to pick through the conversation for anything of meaning. He's well aware of the fact that Loki is the god of  _lies_  so most of everything he's said thus far is probably bullshit...but there are moments of genuine interaction, and perhaps quite a bit of truth in his words.  _I have neither of which to speak._  Damn it. The statement is rather confusing, though; Thor has already mentioned that he's adopted, but he's never really expanded on it. There's drama in this direction, space Viking family drama, and he's not sure he wants to get mixed up in it. But if it leads to being allowed further beyond the obvious barriers the demigod has surrounded himself with...

"It doesn't have to be, you know. A prison cell." He's really not sure why it's important. Doesn't Loki  _deserve_  a prison cell? Since when did he care so much about the demigod's comfort? Or his more than possible family issues that may or may not sound somewhat familiar?  _Since you started bringing him handmade sandwiches and trying to talk him into watching movies. Since you decided that he's a person, instead of just The Bad Guy. Not that he isn't **still** The Bad Guy. But... _ "You can go other places in the tower."

That glint is still in his eyes when Loki looks back at him. "You would allow me to roam about without supervision? Without a  _nanny_  to ensure that I do not seek out and wreak havoc upon your creations? It  _is_ tempting, Stark."

"Alright,  _one:_ don't joke about that," Tony says firmly. "Seriously, that's the line and you're riverdancing on it. And second, JARVIS?"

The AI's voice rings out from above, and Tony has the satisfaction of seeing Loki jump and nearly fall out of his chair, gazing up at the ceiling suspiciously. "Yes sir?"

Composure completely forgotten, Loki grips the back of his chair, eyes still trained on the ceiling. "Where is he?"

"Everywhere." Tony's well aware of how smug he sounds, but he can't help it. "Built-in babysitter. Automatically restricts access to unauthorized areas in addition to being an excellent tour guide."

"Thank you, sir." 

"Don't let it go to your head, JARVIS."

Loki's grip loosens slightly, although he continues to look for the source of the voice. "Your disembodied voice. Does...he watch everything?" 

This is tricky territory, and Tony's not above lying a little himself. He doesn't plan on creeping on Loki, or any of the other inhabitants of the tower for that matter, not without reason. "It's less  _watch_  and more monitor vital signs. Body temperature, heart rate, various energy signatures..."

"So he is a spy." Not exactly, but Loki sounds impressed by the idea so Tony lets it slide.

"Potentially." It's his turn to flash the demigod a mischievous grin. "Only if you misbehave." 

_Was that accidental innuendo?_ The comment doesn't go unnoticed by Loki, who raises an eyebrow, but Tony brushes past it without acknowledgment. "The point being that you are not confined to this room. The only one keeping you cooped up in here is you."

Loki frowns, turning back to the desk and falling silent for a minute. 

"I would rest now," he says softly. 

"Are you kicking me out now?" The question goes unanswered; Loki appears to have retreated somewhere within himself. "I guess I'll take that as a yes."

Tony goes to leave, retrieving the plate on the way. He stops beside the desk, inwardly steeling himself before placing a hand on the demigod's shoulder. "Hey. Reindeer Games. Just think about it, alright?"

Loki doesn't react, and after a moment Tony sighs, heading for the door. 

"I make no promises, Stark." The words are spoken with finality, the "Get the hell out" implied rather than stated. Which is a hell of an improvement, honestly.

"Good enough." And for the first time, Tony exits the room to silence instead of Loki threatening to end him or insulting him. 

It's progress. 

And if his face is lit up and he's wearing a silly grin all the way back to the kitchen, it's purely coincidental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I thought that 'right in the feels' line was out of place, but Tony Stark is the god of technology and pop culture references, so it works, I think. : )


	4. Tony Expands His Culinary Horizons (And Drama Ensues)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony tries to do something nice for someone in the interest of friendship, and loses a bottle of scotch and a touch of dignity in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so bloody long! Chapter is un-betaed, because I don't have one; I think I got all of the kinks out but if not, I'll go over it again with a fine-toothed comb as soon as I get a chance.

It is a few trying days later (following crime announcing its unceremonious resurgence in the form of Dr. Doom, a slew of Doombots, a handful of assorted injuries all across the board and a completely totaled suit, because Doom is a _dick_ ) that Tony stumbles upon Thor sitting at the island in the kitchen, his face fixed in one of the most dismal expressions Tony's ever seen on the generally jovial demigod. Granted, the past few days have been frustrating for a variety of reasons (he hasn't visited Loki in about three, which bothers him a bit more than he wishes to acknowledge so he doesn't), between tangling with Doom and actually being forced into the office at death glare-point by Pepper, but none of it warrants the _hopelessness_ evident in Thor's shoulders. It's also clear that he hasn't been sleeping well, either; there are faint shadows beneath his baby blues, and his shaggy golden locks have a fuzzy quality to them, not too different from his brother's.

He looks like he needs a hug, and possibly a good night's sleep, but Tony isn't big on hugs, and in his own partially sleep deprived state he's not sure how to suggest the demigod go to bed without it turning into incidental innuendo, so he pours him a drink instead. It's the thought that counts.

Also it's an obscenely _expensive_ drink, the stock that runs more per bottle than some people make in a year, so his heart's definitely in the right place.

So it comes as rather a shock when, after making his way over to the dejected demigod with two glasses and a $40,000 bottle of scotch in tow, greeting him with a relatively cheerful "You look like you could use a shot of this", Thor bypasses both pleasantries and common decency and opts to take the bottle itself and proceeds  to take a pretty hefty swig from it.

It's also sort of shocking that this doesn't result in a coughing fit; $40,000 scotch is not the sort of thing normal people chug like cheap beer, but, hey, _gods._

Thor's about a fourth of the way through the bottle before he comes up for air, giving Tony the chance to snatch it from him and move it off to the side. "I said a _shot,_ Point Break, not half the bottle!"

Thor's eyes are misty when he finally turns to look at him, and Tony feels a twinge of guilt for snapping at him. "My apologies, friend Stark, but I can assure you that it would not have been enough. You do not possess spirits strong enough to make much of a difference."

This shouldn't come as a surprise, given that thus far everything hailing from Asgard is ridiculous, but Tony has to stop for a minute and think about the implications of this statement. "What the hell kind of booze do they have back in Asgard?"

"It would likely kill a mortal."

Tony whistles, nodding sagely. "Seriously? See, now I'm curious."

Thor opens his mouth to respond, probably to reiterate his previous statement about the experience being fatal, then seems to remember who he's talking to and changes his tune. "Perhaps I shall bring a sample the next time I am called home."

The word triggers the resurgence of whatever's eating at him, and he heaves a heavy sigh, falling silent once more.

Talking about _feelings_   is not something Tony Stark does. It's complicated and messy and generally leads to drama, and human beings are far more intricate than machines so he prefers to steer clear of playing therapist to anyone -- not that he's the first person anyone seeks out to have a heart to heart with on regular basis, anyway. But he just can't walk away and leave Thor stewing in his depression, especially in light of the fact that he has a pretty good idea regarding what's going on, so he resists the urge to just hand over the bottle and pulls up a stool across from him. The demigod looks up at him questioningly, but he doesn't get a response until Tony's suited up for _unpleasant feelings slash space Viking family drama time_ : by pouring himself a tumbler of scotch and taking a sip (because he's only human, and normal people do not chug scotch.)

"Mind telling me what's got you so bummed out that a quarter of a bottle of 1926 Macallan doesn't even begin to put a dent in it?"

Thor only hesitates for a moment before giving in. "It...is my brother."

_Bullseye._  "Of course it is," Tony says nonchalantly, taking a long sip of his drink. "What's he up to now? Is he building a spire on the roof? He better not be building a spire on my roof." Tony knows perfectly well that Loki is not constructing a spire on the roof (nor would he be able to without attracting a fair amount of attention) but Thor doesn't know that he knows that, nor does he need to. _Yet_.

The Look Thor gives him is a perfect balance of exasperated and sorrowful. "He is not building a spire on your roof. My brother refuses to leave his room, and he will not speak with me regarding the matter."

The demigod reaches for the bottle of scotch and Tony lets him have it, because he can already feel the guilt knotting up in his stomach. "I have implored him to tell me what troubles him, and even apologized for any transgressions I may have committed in our youth, but he will not break his silence. He will make small requests, but little beyond that, and sometimes he will refuse me entrance into his room entirely."

Oh yeah, that little knot of guilt in Tony's stomach has crystallized and begun to grow. Not once has Loki refused him, even in the earlier days when his patience was far thinner than it appears to be now. That he will speak with Tony over his own brother is strangely satisfying on a base level that he also refuses to acknowledge and examine fully, but it doesn't erase the fact that he feels kind of like a jerk for hiding the visits from him.

"Can't you just go in? It's not like locks are really a thing for you. Or doors." This is very true, and somewhere in his records are the construction bills to prove it.

The very concept seems to offend Thor. "He is my brother. If he does not wish to see me, I will honor it."

" _Jesus."_ The bottom of his tumbler is mocking him, so Tony pours himself another. That's definitely a headache looming, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with the contents of his glass. "I'm so glad I'm an only child." The comment is followed up by mentally kicking himself, because Thor's face falls even further ( _technically he is an only child now that his little shit of a little brother has disowned him, way to be insensitive as hell, you can't blame that one on the alcohol)_ , and he's really considering throwing caution to the wind and just hugging the guy.

"Look, maybe he's just taking awhile to get used to being grounded without his fairy dust. Just give him a few weeks and he'll probably be back to...whatever he was like before." Tony has no idea what that is, because the only Loki he's ever known is a smug bastard that gets angry at the drop of a hat, but he _assumes_  that wasn't always the case. "He can't stay pissed off forever."

"Perhaps." It's not much of a pep talk, but at least Thor looks a little less dismal, a ray of hope creeping across his face. "Reconciliation will not be so easy, I think. We have much to discuss, when I am granted the chance."

The sincerity and determination in his voice is quite awe-inspiring, and that's not just the scotch talking. For the first time Tony has a real sense of just how devoted the demigod is to his brother, adopted or otherwise. "You're a good brother." The words just kind of pop out unbidden, which probably  _is_  thanks to the scotch, but they need to be said anyway. "Really."

Thor smiles then, a sad smile, but it's better than the dismal face he's been pulling all night thus far. "I fear I am not. But I am trying to correct that."

There's really nothing to be said to that, as Tony can't actually offer any advice on the matter (aside from telling him that he's been hanging out with and feeding his estranged brother for over a week but he really doubts Loki would appreciate that, and he has no intention of stopping anytime soon), so he resorts to just passing the demigod the remnants of the scotch. "This is the good stuff, even though it's probably apple juice to you. Enjoy."

Thor reaches over to clap a grateful hand on his shoulder (almost dislocating it, because the guy  _really_ doesn't get how strong he actually is), and a terrible idea disguised as a brilliant one flickers into existence in Tony's head, working its disastrous way out of his mouth before he can stop it. "Completely out of curiosity, is there any food your brother actually likes?"

_What the hell?_

Thor leans back, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. "Why do you wish to know?"

This is a good question, and it takes a few seconds of internally panicked shuffling before he can devise an answer that doesn't completely blow his cover. "Future reference." He makes sure to take a careless sip from his tumbler, as if disinterested in Thor's response. "I assume eventually he'll stop starving himself and being a recluse and wander into the kitchen at some point."

Thor looks incredulous at this. "Why are you concerned with his wellbeing? As I understand it you are not very fond of my brother."

_Fuck if I know._  "Hey, I'm trying to be nice here," Tony snaps defensively. Yeah, Loki's not at the top of his list of favorite people, or anywhere near it, but he's not a completely heartless bastard regardless of what the tabloids say. "I mean, he's a jerk, but..."

The flimsy explanation is good enough for Thor, apparently; his face lights up completely at the thought of someone besides himself being concerned about his little shit of a sibling, and ( _oh God he has to stop that_ ) he reaches over to pat Tony's abused shoulder again. "Thank you for your kindness, friend Stark. I will let Loki know you expressed interest in accommodating him."

_Shit._  "That's really not necessary. I don't like to advertise."

Thor grins, the broad, luminous kind Tony's used to, and suddenly the incredibly awkward conversation and waste of a  _really damn expensive_  bottle of booze seems completely worth it, and Tony's smiling back. It's impossible not to.

"He is not partial to much," the demigod muses thoughtfully. "My brother has never been a hearty eater, even at the most impressive feasts Asgard had to offer."

"I wish I could say I'm surprised," Tony deadpans, mentally adding the words 'difficult' and 'picky asshole' to the list of terms of endearment reserved for Loki.

Thor takes no offense, nodding in agreement. "I cannot recall anything he holds a special fondness for...perhaps there is something. It is a kind of bread that is not too sweet, with fruit baked inside. I believe Jane Foster referred to the Midgardian equivalent as 'muffins'."

This is not what Tony was expecting. He's not sure what he was expecting, because it isn't as if he  _really_  knows Loki on a deep personal level or anything along those lines, but the idea of the guy that opened a portal in the sky and attempted to level an entire city while parading around in leather and a golden horned helmet liking something as benign and innocent as muffins doesn't sit well in his head, and he actually has to stare at Thor for a brief moment just to make sure he isn't fucking with him. "Muffins?  _Really_?"

The suspicion begins to creep back onto Thor's face and Tony attempts to halt him in his tracks before he starts to question why he cares so much again. "No, it's just...I expected something a little more elaborate. We're talking about a guy with a golden helmet."

It occurs to him that he's speaking to a guy that channels lightning and wields a giant fucking hammer that also doubles as an unorthodox transportation device yet consistently depletes the sugary snack supply in the kitchen, and any point that he could try to make about misrepresentation is moot. "You know what? Never mind. I'll make a note of it for future reference."

The demigod's looking much perkier now, and the terrible idea blossoming at the back of his skull is expanding, so Tony decides to take his leave before  _space Viking family drama therapy time_  goes any further, mumbling some half-assed excuse and standing up before Thor can reach over and add to what's probably a bruised shoulder at this point. He's really got to teach him some other friendly gestures. Handshakes seem harmless. High-fives. Maybe not high-fives, that's bound to end in a broken wrist on someone's end. 

As he's leaving, Thor turns to watch him go, still wearing his aggravatingly infectious smile. "Thank you for your counsel, Tony. It is much appreciated."

The distinctively warm and fuzzy feeling in his chest is most certainly not the scotch, it's something completely different, and it sends Tony running for the safety of his emotion-free workshop. That's enough team bonding for one day.

 

\-----

 

_Muffins._

The thing is, there is an art to making sandwiches, but it's not necessarily a refined one. Any idiot barely capable of physically caring for themselves can stumble into a kitchen partially (or completely, from time to time) hungover and slap ingredients between two pieces of bread without it resulting in disaster. Tony knows, because he's done it, on many occasions. The sandwiches he's been making for Loki might be slightly more elaborate than peanut butter and honey, but in terms of skill level they're still pretty basic. 

Muffins are likely to result in a fire. 

Aside from that, he's not sure where the idea came from, nor why it's assaulting him, clanging against his skull and rising up between figures in the most intrusive manner until he has to toss his tablet aside and actually confront the notion that he's seriously considering baking muffins for a guy that tried to and probably still has designs that involve killing him. It's not the  _worst_  idea he's ever had, nor is it the stupidest (although he has to admit, it's up there), but in the interest of remaining neutral it's a pretty bad move. 

Mostly because he isn't sure how he feels about the demigod, anyway. 

They're not quite friends, although the atmosphere during visits has lifted considerably, and his concern with the demigod isolating himself and barely eating has crept beyond slight curiosity into something genuine at some point without him noticing. He can possibly write it off as a step towards actual friendship -- but why does he want to make friends with  _Loki_  of all people anyway?

The line of thought is confusing and endless, and somehow Tony ends up spending a good hour leaning back in an office chair, pondering such questions as  _What kind of muffins_ and  _Can you use alcohol in a muffin recipe_  and  _Why the hell am I doing this_ , which is the most prominent question. "JARVIS. Why the hell am I doing this? Why do I even care?"

The AI's response is infuriatingly sardonic. "I am not capable of providing a satisfactory answer to that question, sir."

_Damn it._ "Muffins," he grumbles, massaging his temples in a sad effort to relieve the headache from earlier that has yet to go about its merry way. " _Jesus._ He likes  _muffins._ "

JARVIS's voice is downright cheerful as he suggests, probably helpfully, but also because he's capable of being quite a dick at times, "Would you like me to download a simple recipe, sir?"

" _No,"_ Tony snaps, because fuck this, he isn't making muffins for  _Loki_. "Why would I want that? I'm not setting the tower on fire making muffins for that asshole. Too much effort for too little of a reward."

If JARVIS had an actual physical interface, and that interface was capable of human expression, Tony imagines it would be set in the smug, shit-eating,  _oh so punchworthy_  grin of someone who knows they're right and can't avoid flaunting it. "Have any of your visits resulted in any form of reward thus far, sir?"

"Shut up, JARVIS."

 

\------

 

Baking blueberry muffins from scratch is not rocket science. 

It's actually harder.

In retrospect, Tony muses thoughtfully, examining the first batch of his experiment in both making friends with archenemies  _and_  expressing platonic interest through crafting gifts with no mechanical components whatsoever, he probably should have taken JARVIS's advice and just purchased a box of blueberry muffin mix. Hell, he could've sprung for the high-end, $10 organic variety with the fresh blueberries, or even just located the fanciest bakery in Central New York and bought their entire stock because somehow it would have been far easier than what he's doing now. But Tony Stark likes a challenge, even if said challenge results in crippling failure and embarrassment, and in those regards he's been fairly successful. 

The first batch of muffins is an utter, devastating disaster, as predicted, and they can't be salvaged. They're mocking him from where they are permanently affixed to a ruined muffin pan, and have the color, consistency, and texture of stones. He's tempted to ask Thor to take Mjolnir to one of them just to see whether they're actually indestructible, as they appear to be, but then he'll have to explain why he's suddenly in the kitchen baking blueberry muffins after their recent conversation and that's a situation he wants to avoid. He's lucky Thor's out with Jane for the day; it's the only reason he's risking doing this now, surrounded by flour and baking powder and baking soda (somehow he's not sure he should be using both) and  _fresh_  blueberries instead of the fake ones, which is why his hands are now dyed an interesting shade of blue for the time being. 

"JARVIS? Why am I doing this?" 

This is the fifth time this conversation has occurred within the past hour, and he's pretty sure he's not imagining the dry tone with which the AI responds, "Out of the goodness of your heart, sir."

"That's right." Blueberry Muffins, Mark One are returned to the counter to be examined at length later. "Alright, let's try this again."

The second batch requires some tweaking; cooking is a science all its own, and one that shouldn't be too difficult to master. After all, the hairline precision of the wiring in his suit can't be more complicated than measuring out ingredients and allowing them to sit in an oven for a period of time. So it's with the enthusiasm of a scientist confronting the unknown that he adds ingredients to the one mixing bowl that he didn't accidentally burn a hole in by leaving it on the stove earlier, liberally adding blueberries to the mixture and beating the hell out of it before proudly placing the other muffin tin that isn't host to an abomination (perhaps forgetting to grease the cups before adding the batter was his fatal mistake) in the oven (which is now on a respectable 350 degrees instead of 500, which also might have been his fatal mistake, and he's not even sure how the hell it reset itself) and leaning back against the island triumphantly. 

It isn't until ten minutes later, while pouring a (tiny) amount of victory gin that Tony realizes he forgot to add any sugar to the batter whatsoever.

"Oh for-" 

"What are you doing?"

The feminine voice is not Pepper's, and internally he curses his luck -- and inattention to the fact that there are other people  _besides_  Thor that he didn't want to encounter while doing this. Specifically the two SHIELD agents watching him incredulously from the doorway, as if the sight of  _Tony Stark_  of all people baking is some kind of wondrous occurrence that only happens once in a lifetime, and it kind of is, really.

There's flour on his shirt, his hands are blue, and there's a pan of blackened husks sitting next to him. In a failed, weak attempt to grasp whatever dignity he has left, Tony flashes a lazy smile at Clint and Natasha, taking a sip of his drink idly. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm expanding my culinary horizons."

This is a ridiculous lie, and he's sure Natasha can see right through it. Probably Clint too, from the way the archer leers at him as he makes his way over to the fridge. If Natasha is amused as well, she keeps it well hidden behind an impassive mask. "From scratch?"

" _Yes,"_ and if it comes out a little testier than intended it's because fucking Clint has decided to take a gander at Blueberry Muffins, Mark One, and he's not even making an attempt to hide his mirth. 

"Are these breakfast or a new kind of ammo?" He asks, prodding the surface of one of the muffins; the tapping sound that ensues is not how a baked good should sound. "Can I have them?"

"No, they're mine."

"Because I don't think there's any other use for these aside from combat."

It is one thing to ruin two batches of blueberry muffins. It's another to be mocked in your own kitchen. "You, Barton, are an asshole." 

"So who is it?" Natasha asserts her presence once more; she hasn't moved from where she stands, surveying the mess calmly (and in an utterly unnerving manner). The question causes a brief moment of panic ( _how the hell does she know of course she knows she knows everything_ ) before he actually understands the implication. It's no secret that he really hasn't returned to his previous bad habits regarding  _casual interpersonal relationships_  following the dissolution of his last serious relationship; this isn't a revelation of his fraternization with the enemy but shameless fishing for gossip. 

"So readily do you assume," he sneers, taking another sip of gin. "They're for me. I'm going to eat all of them. You can't have any."

Clint taps at one of the burnt muffins again for emphasis before Tony swats his hand away. "Pity."

Natasha observes him for another minute or so before the tension fades and she follows Clint's lead, grabbing an apple from the fridge. "Fair enough."

"Man," Clint begins, because Clint is an  _asshole_  and Tony's considering evicting him, "You must be whipped already if you're risking your life in the kitchen." 

This does draw a light snicker from Natasha; teammates and friends are terrible people and Tony hates them  _and_  Loki for getting him into this mess in the first place. "Feel free to fuck off anytime, guys."

Clint's still wearing a stupid grin as he turns to leave with Natasha in tow. "Good luck."

Tony flips him the bird. Evicted. Definitely.

Natasha pauses in the doorway, red hair swishing against her back when she glances back over her shoulder at Tony with a faint smile on her lips. "Something's burning."

" _Shit._ "

 

\-----

 

Three hours, two batches, an odd look from Bruce (thankfully sans commentary, because being mocked by two Avengers in one afternoon is already too many) and another glass of gin later, Tony manages to pull off a nearly perfect (at least visibly) batch of blueberry muffins that are neither blackened nor burned; a preliminary taste test reveals that they're actually pretty good for an amateur effort. They're excellent in comparison to Marks One through Three.

There's something remotely sad at being so gleeful over such a basic accomplishment, but he chooses not to dwell on it; the afternoon is slipping away and alongside it the chances of delivering his  _handiwork_  (gift seems too formal and has a completely different connotation) without having to explain himself to anyone else. The kitchen is an absolute mess and Tony's a mess too -- his shirt is covered in flour (and his hands are still faintly blue), but that can be dealt with at a more opportune time. Presentation is important, so he  _does_  take a minute to dig up an ostentatious silver platter to transfer the warm muffins to before heading towards the lift.

Thankfully the path to the lift is clear, as is the hallway of Thor's floor; the big guy must still be out with Jane, which is excellent -- maybe he'll be out for the night, meaning he won't have to cut his visit short, at least until Loki gets fed up and kicks him out, but with his current peace offering perhaps his patience will hold out a little longer.

Tony doesn't realize that he's grinning like a fiend.

He's still grinning like a fiend when, following a few fairly modest knocks at the demigod's door that take a minute to attract any attention, Loki responds to his cheerful "Miss me?" by shutting the door in his face. In retrospect, Tony muses, he probably should have seen  _that_  coming.

But he's holding the culmination of a lot of time, effort, and embarrassment and thus not willing to back down without a fight, so he resumes pounding at the door, yelling without a hint of self-consciousness, "Oh come on! Don't be like that, baby, I'm sorry!"

It's a stupid comment but it has the desired effect; the door creaks open just slightly, Loki's livid, reddened face appearing in the thin sliver of space. "Need you be  _so very loud_  and obnoxious, Stark?" he hisses. 

"Yes," because Tony doesn't have a functioning sense of self-preservation, and also because he's out of fucks to give at this point. "They're two of my most endearing character traits."

"You do not possess any."

" _Ouch._ You wound me." Standing out in the hallway holding a platter of blueberry muffins and yelling isn't the best idea, so Tony switches tactics, specifically the 'sad puppy' eyes that never actually work on anyone, but it's worth a shot. "Come on, Reindeer Games. I made you something."

Perhaps the sad puppy eyes are successful for the first time, or maybe it's just that Loki's tired of his racket; with a deep, long-suffering sigh and long white fingers pinching the bridge of his nose the demigod acquiesces. "Very well."

For once Loki's room is slightly different; the bedclothes are unmade for the first time, the stack of books is sprawling and a few have migrated elsewhere. While it's nowhere near normal levels of disheveled, it's out of place against the static backdrop of Tony's other visits. The room's sole inhabitant is also a bit divergent from the norm -- in contrast to his usual composure his entire bearing is stiff and uneasy, face set in a seemingly permanent frown. He completely ignores Tony and his offering after letting him in, seating himself at the desk and turning his back on him, leaving the inventor to stand awkwardly near the door without further commentary. It's such a pissy, sulking gesture that it's hard to be offended by it, and Tony's voice is still rather cheerful as he remarks, "You're acting like you  _didn't_  miss me."

"You're assuming I did." Loki's tone is acidic, and so is the poisonous gleam in his eyes when he briefly glances over his shoulder at his unwanted guest. "To be completely honest, I was quite thrilled to be left in relative  _peace_  without the intrusion of presumptuous, babbling idiot for a brief period of time. How  _unfortunate_  that it is at an end."

"Damn. You really know how to make a guy feel appreciated." The statement earns Tony a nasty little smirk. 

"I assure you my attention is quite the opposite." 

The asshole turns away again, as if Tony's presence is of little consequence; his behavior is far more hostile than it's been since their half-baked relationship began, and it only takes Tony a few minutes of processing to figure out what's going on. "You  _did_  miss me. I'm flattered."

The cool, composed veneer cracks a little under the accusation; the demigod whipping around to stare at him as if he's a insect or some other lesser lifeform. "I did not miss  _you_. Perhaps I lamented the absence of a suitable distraction, but it has nothing to do with you. One of your mindless compatriots would have served an equal purpose." 

"Even The Hulk?" 

"At least the beast does not prattle on without cessation."

"And Thor?"

The Look Loki gives him at this suggestion is answer enough to how he feels about the idea; apparently his brother's not included in the list of people who would make better company than Tony. 

For the first time the demigod appears to notice the blue hands and fine sheen of flour coating his AC/DC shirt; his frown softens into an expression of confusion. "Not that it's any concern of mine, but might I ask as to why you're in such a state?"

"What? Oh." Tony walks over to him, presenting the demigod with the platter of muffins proudly; Loki accepts it suspiciously. "In the likely misguided interest of forging a completely platonic relations... _friendship_ based on mutual respect-"

Loki scoffs at this, rolling his eyes; Tony ignores this because  _this asshole, why did he just spend half his day trying to do something nice for him again_? "Mutual respect...you know what, fuck it. Here. Jerk."

He's fully expecting the demigod to react badly; either throw them at him or let fly with another intricately crafted insult on his intelligence or manhood or whatever the topic du jour is. What he isn't prepared for is no reaction whatsoever. Loki's staring at the muffins; the expression on his face is guarded and unreadable. 

"They're not grenades," Tony says; the lack of reaction is beginning to make him a bit anxious. "Mark Three was actively combustible, but these are perfectly safe. And edible. There's actually a difference."

Nothing. 

"Hello? You in there?"

When Loki finally speaks, his voice is cold, but with an undertone suggesting that a storm is looming on the horizon. "How did you know?"

_Oh shit_. It's at this point that the fatal flaw in his plan rears its ugly head, and it's only a desire to feign innocence that prevents Tony from pressing his palm to his forehead. Similar to 'safe' and 'edible', there's also a marked difference between plying empty-headed groupies in clubs that don't care where it's coming from with gifts and doing so to someone intelligent and thoughtful enough to analyze the gesture. "Educated guess? Found your blog posts?" 

"Stark." It's a 'no more bullshit' tone, and Tony sighs. 

"Okay, so I talked to him. It's not like I could've just asked you. Maybe I could've just asked you. That...probably would have been a better option." 

Loki glares at him. It's not his usual glare, liable to dissolve at any moment; this is genuine anger etched across his pale face. As before, those green eyes bore into him, searching for  _something._ The gesture makes Tony's skin crawl although he refuses to admit it out loud. "I'm getting the feeling that I fucked up  _somewhere_  along the line, but I'm failing to pinpoint where."

"Perhaps," Loki says, and  _damn_   _he's actually pissed this time_ , "Your poor choice was attempting to pull the wool over the eyes of someone who  _deceives_  as a profession."

"Goddamn it." Tony's headache is trying to reassert itself. "I knew you were going to be an asshole over this. I don't even...I don't even understand  _why_  you're being an asshole over this. Is a complete lack of gratitude just an Asgardian thing?"

"Gratitude?" The demigod laughs bitterly. "You expect gratitude for keeping me under surveillance?"

Wait, what? This statement doesn't make any sense. "Wait,  _what_?"

"This!" Loki's composure cuts out; he gestures towards the muffins for emphasis. "All of this under the direction of that lumbering fool!"

Tony doesn't know what lumbering fool he's referring to; given the general lack of respect the demigod has for most of the tower's inhabitants it really could be anyone. "You're going to have to be more specific. Also you've lost me."

Loki falls silent, lips pressed together so hard that they fade from pink to near white. Things have taken a turn for the utterly confusing, and the demigod's lack of actual clarification isn't helping. He's also holding the muffin platter at an awkward angle, with one precariously close to hitting the ground. Tony doesn't care how pissed off he is; if he drops those muffins, Thor's coming home to half a brother. This may be highly improbable and likely physically impossible but fucking with a man who's just spent the better part of his day being mocked in his own kitchen while trying to bake blueberry muffins is a bad idea, divinity aside. 

Something about his mostly incoherent raving clicks in Tony's head, and he groans. "Wait, you think  _your brother_  put me up to this?" This is batshit insane, and given that knowledge, maybe he can understand why Loki would draw that conclusion. "Seriously?"

The demigod doesn't respond, but the way his eyes narrow at the words confirms it. And an inappropriate laugh erupts from Tony against his better judgment; not because the situation is funny, because it isn't, but because the idea is so ludicrous. " _Trust issues._  Look, I was just...no one put me up to this, especially not your-"

" _He is not my brother,"_  Loki snarls, one hand gripping the back of the chair tightly enough to leave a light indentation in the material. "He is no kin or mine, nor I him. Nor do I need a useless reminder of a world that has cast me aside like refuse without cause!"

"Okay, you know what?" Tony reaches over and snatches the platter back; the action surprises Loki so much that he lets go without resistance. "I'm keeping these. These are mine, because I made them, and you're being an asshole. Assholes don't get muffins. Also, for the record, your brother has no idea that I've even spoken to you, and I intend to keep it that way. But if you want to wear a tinfoil hat and think I've been coming here as part of some grand conspiracy, be my guest. Whatever." 

It's a lame statement to exit on, but he's pissed off too, and having a witty closing line just isn't that important at the moment. He does make a point of slamming the door behind him, though. It's good enough.

 

\------

 

They're pretty good muffins, and in the end Tony does end up eating all of them slumped over the bar in the penthouse, chased down with just a little too much scotch, fuming, and thinking perfectly poisonous thoughts about ungrateful dickhead Asgardian nutjobs the entire time. 

There's just enough anger and alcohol to cover how much the whole fiasco  _hurts_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotch is not an alcohol I'm familiar with, so I had to do a bit of research there. It is also possible to ruin muffins that badly. It requires a special level of incompetence generally associated with sleep deprivation. :D
> 
> I'm not sure how I'm doing for characterization. I assume that if it's *terrible* someone will let me know.


	5. Interlude: The Noise (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stripped of identity and talent, the fallen prince of Asgard withers beneath the weight of his loss. (Loki's POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was initially meant to be one chapter, but it's getting larger than expected so I decided to break it up. These 'Interlude' chapters will be Loki's POV regarding the chapters that precede them. Minor Thor 2 spoilers if you squint? It's nothing more than the circumstances of his imprisonment on Asgard, although there will be more to follow. Also I fixed the story tags, because they were ridiculous.

A prison with gilded bars and marble floors is still a prison; it's merely nicer to gaze upon while one's mental facilities erode.

This prison doesn't have bars, nor is the floor marble -- it's carpet, of some kind, soft to the touch and obviously expensive, as are all the other effects of the room. The scanty furniture is of the minimalistic variety that yet costs a fortune, in monotonous shades: white metal bedframe, black desk, black bookshelf full of strange magazines with foreign mechanical devices splayed across the pages and strange tomes that consist of figures that give him a headache when he stares at them for too long. There is a small white leather sofa, little larger than a loveseat, and a glass coffee table placed before it.

Where the furnishings fall short, there are a myriad odd gadgets that he neither understands nor recognizes. The flatscreen television is familiar from his previous time in Midgard, but the panel on the wall displaying what he supposes is the temperature (internal or external, he can't tell), the device built into the wall that shows the time but also plays horrendous music when he fiddles with it -- these things are scattered at random, and while his curiosity is piqued he'll be damned if he's going to ask any of the tower's accursed residents what they are -- and his unwanted neighbor is just as ignorant as he is, most of the time.

It's not as garishly decorated as it could be, at least visually, but the space is so removed from what he knows (the organic materials of Asgard, wood and stone and wool, the rich colors and fabrics and his own quarters, bedecked in shades of green and gold, lively and warm where this is impersonal and cold) that Loki hates it immediately.

Perhaps this is merely an extension of the seething resentment he feels over the entire situation. It is not just this particular room in Stark Tower that he hates, but the Tower itself, and its place of origin. He hates its inhabitants (save for the Thunderer) with significantly less fervor if only because they are silly creatures, fragile mortals, and it's foolish to waste his ire on the equivalent of dumb beasts. Better to save it for the reason he's here...although if he's honest with himself, it truly does not matter where he is, be it the golden cells of Asgard or the glass fishbowl of the SHIELD carrier or this room. Perhaps the prison is not an external state, but something stifling that emanates from the earring fastened into his ear, keeping the magic that is his lifeblood trapped beneath the surface of his skin, howling for release in his ears and beckoning insanity closer with every passing day.

But Thor's an easy target, with his earnest desire to reignite the passion and devotion of their former bond; it takes little effort to bring his hopes and anticipation crashing down, from a simple rejection of food to outright ignoring the knocks at the door, and while it is a petty victory (if that at all; in truth it is merely an exertion of the remaining amount of control he has left) and it brings him little joy Loki pulls his strings when given the chance. As it is, aside from the expected severe looks and threats of physical violence that accompanied his arrival, none of the rest of Thor's companions bother to invade his privacy and he makes no attempts to engage with any of them, so his not brother is the only sentient interaction he has for the first few days.

This is a blessing that gradually reveals itself as a curse.

After the first two days, he's bored.

This is not unexpected. During his previous months in prison (admittedly furnished for a prince instead of a common criminal) on Asgard, amidst a flurry of trials and accusations and unsubstantiated gossip, boredom was a constant companion, often set at bay by with scheming and plotting vengeance against too many parties to count and analyzing where it had all gone so terribly wrong. But even then his magic, while incapable of allowing him to carve through the walls of his cell, was still accessible for brief amusement, instead of buzzing in his head like a nest of irate wasps trapped between his brain and his skull.

This is unbearable. There are books, spell tomes and histories of the other realms (including Jotunheim, although that remains untouched), brought from his collection in the palace, and there is the vile television that's good for providing a few minutes or so of entertainment between losing his patience with the idiocy of the mortal realm and tossing the remote aside. Some time is devoted to exploration; there is a connected washroom already stocked with toiletries -- some of which are confusing, including what appears to some form of bathing gel that promises to make the user smell like an untamed beast; why anyone would wish to do so  _after_ bathing is baffling. So is the shower itself, which is once again riddled with buttons and knobs for adjusting the showerhead and the stream of water flowing from it -- honestly, could whoever designed this place have refrained from adding as many useless features as possible?

The novelty of this exhausts itself rather quickly on the first day, leaving little other option aside from leaving the room to seek sport elsewhere -- and this is not something he wants to do. The idea of facing the others, grounded, without his power, relegated to the same level as them; he anticipates the sneers, the jests at his expense, or, even worse, the slight possibility of being looked upon with  _pity_ (he suspects that the one that carries the shield held a measure of sympathy in his gaze during their brief interaction, and the notion made him want to tear his eyes out) -- these are not things he is prepared for, so he stays put.

He doesn't really have an inclination to venture beyond his cell door, anyway.

Boredom is toxic; it forces one to confront thoughts that they would rather avoid, and with nothing but a few books standing between himself and a level of introspection he wants nothing to do with Loki begins to remember. Things that are buried, and should stay buried.

Hideous blue skin, run through with white lines that might've formed symbols or tattoos of some sort had he taken the chance to look at them more closely, wretched crimson eyes devoid of intelligence or refinement; betrayal, not the light sensation of being the victim of a harmless prank or act of mischief, but the rending of all one knows and holds dear, of one's identity, and  _he refuses to think about that moment too closely because he feels the magic throbbing within his fingers, longing to send something, anything smashing against the wall_ and fingers gripping at the shattered Bifrost, darkness, so much darkness, silence, and _pain, unbearable pain and promises you can't refuse he'll find you eventually and you'll pay for your failure and even now his nightmares are riddled with those empty eyes that have seen the destruction of a thousand worlds_  and what comes after, wrapped tight with chains and staring fate in its one remaining eye, cold and hard and devoid of any familial affection,  _your birthright was to die-_

There isn't much to destroy that he either won't be worse off for losing, so he contents himself with systematically shredding a few of the magazines, carefully removing each page and ripping it into halves, then fourths,eighths, the sound of paper ripping oddly calming to his ears. The minor destruction doesn't fully sate him, but it's a suitable distraction, for a while.

He doubts the owner will miss them, anyway.

Afterwards he discards the mess and rearranges the toppled stack of books and the upturned chair and the bedclothes tossed asunder by the throes of a recurring nightmare that has become all too common, and whenever he permits Thor to enter it seems that he has barely moved at all.

Loki won't give any of them the satisfaction of seeing him falling apart.

  


\------

  


It isn't until the first week is drawing to a close that a distraction arises, and it's nigh upon one of the most aggravating interactions he's had to deal with in quite some time.

If the boredom was merely irritating on the second day, by the fifth day between the isolation, the consistent hum in his ears and the litany of thoughts that won't leave him be, Loki is ready to tear his hair out, or possibly actually engage in conversation with _Thor_ , of all people. His former cell was a mere box compared to this, and yet this greater measure of freedom while sealed is a worse Hell than he could have conceived.

He's contemplating shredding another magazine, smashing the television screen, snapping the spines of the books -- anything to silence the accursed  _noise in his head_ when the most awful din erupts from the other side of the door. The newcomer has no sense of etiquette, clearly; this assumption is only confirmed as, accompanying the pounding at the door, a vaguely familiar, particularly grating voice follows. "Hey Reindeer Games, open up!"

Of all people, it just has to be  _Stark_.

In a way, it makes sense; the man clearly has no sense of self-preservation, and for all his technical genius (Loki will give him  _that_ at least) he appears to be a complete idiot, laughing in the face of destruction and speaking to a  _god_ with such disrespect. If anyone would be bold enough to approach his cell, it would be its owner.

He can't fathom why the man's choosing to engage him, seemingly alone; he assumes Stark's intending to regain a modicum of dignity following his untimely defenestration and the partial destruction of his tower by unwisely taunting him. While on a good day the demigod would like nothing more than to put paid to his ego with naught but a sharp tongue this isn't a good day, nor do any of the coming days look as if they're going to be very pleasant; it isn't something he can see in the conceivable future, really. Gritting his teeth he decides to just ignore the intrusion, returning to his contemplation of the remaining magazines.

Except Stark doesn't  _leave_. In a startling show of tenacity the pounding on the door continues, becoming more difficult to ignore until the demigod's focus shifts from the magazines to the books; he may not be able to take his head off in the preferred manner, but a book to the face might be just as effective. Mortals are quite fragile, after all.

He's reaching for the thickest book on the shelf when the man speaks once more, yelling through the door, ""You know I can just get JARVIS to open the door for me, right? I'm not going to let you starve yourself to death in  _my_ tower."

This is not what he's expecting, halting him in his tracks. Instead of the expected derision, there's something disturbingly akin to  _concern_ in Stark's voice. This is incredibly suspicious, but intriguing enough to send him towards the door. He doesn't intend to let the man in, of course; he merely wants to see what he's babbling about.

The sight of the slightly shorter man standing in front of his door, brown eyes lit up with manic energy and a plate with food on it in tow is not something he could have seen coming; it's such an odd turn of events that his curiosity intensifies enough to actually engage the man in conversation instead of slamming the door in his face. "What do you want, Stark?"

"I made you a sandwich." He holds up the plate bearing said sandwich, as if it weren't obvious already. "It's a pretty good one, too, if I may say so myself. I mean, I made it, so it's probably the best sandwich you're likely to get around these parts. Earth. Midgard. Whatever the hell you guys call it."

"Midgard," Loki corrects him; his tone softens for a brief moment while he runs the scenario through his head, seeking the logic of Stark's actions and finding none. There is no need to tend to a prisoner for whom one is not responsible, nor does he believe Thor would put one of his companions in (likely) harm's way by allowing them to tend to him. It could very well be poisoned, of course; vengeance for the damage to his tower and the attempt on his life, but are mortal poisons capable of doing more than causing mild discomfort? Besides, he has the unpleasant feeling that he understands Stark well enough to know that something so underhanded is below him. The man is a textbook narcissist, and if he intended to try to harm Loki as an act of revenge he'd at least be upfront about it. "And what, pray tell, compelled you to go through this much trouble for my sake?"

"Dunno." Wonderful. He's dealing with a man who crafts meals (however simplistic) for his enemies and hand delivers them without so much as a knife with which to defend himself. It's rather impressive, actually -- it's clear that Tony Stark is not stupid, he just lacks a functioning sense of self-preservation. "I haven't seen you leave your hive since you got here, and I know you have no idea how to use the toaster or the microwave." The word 'toaster' suggests some kind of open-flame device, but 'microwave' is completely unfamiliar. "Figured you'd be pretty hungry right about now."

This is actually rather true, although he'll be damned if he'll admit to it. Going for long periods of time without food or drink is not exactly a death sentence, as he well knows, despite being extremely uncomfortable; it would be folly if his body were as easily broken down as that of the man that stands before him (although throwing him off of one of the tallest buildings in the city didn't do him in, so maybe he deserves a little more credit.) The sad truth of it is that he's gone soft, grown used to regular meals in his cell and having minor refreshments on hand in-between; he hasn't gone days without eating since his initial ejection from Asgard years prior. It isn't as if Thor hasn't been bringing him food, but what he provides barely counts as food: sugary treats wrapped in silver foil that leave crumbs everywhere, street food that may or may not be derived from animals not intended for consumption, horrendously burnt attempts that are probably very lovingly done but neither edible nor appreciated. He's rejected most of it, save for the occasional piece of fruit; were the future king of Asgard not a hulking dimwit he would have realized that such simple offerings such as apples would be easier to obtain and more graciously received. So the seemingly unburnt sandwich with hints of vegetation poking out of its sides looks far more appetizing than he lets on. "My so-called brother has brought me some of your fare," he informs Stark, as if it's his fault somehow. "I find it highly distasteful."

"If Thor made it, I'm surprised he hasn't been bringing you charcoal."  _Actually_...

The situation is no less suspicious, but there's no real reason to reject Stark's offering. If it's poisoned he'll likely feel the effects while the man is still present and then he'll be perfectly justified in taking the book to him. "If I partake of this concoction," he begins, feigning disinterest, "Will you go away and leave me be?"

"Maybe." Stark shrugs. "I can't make any promises."

Once inside Stark wastes no time in taking stock of his quarters with an obvious expression of pride, confirming that the confusing devices scattered throughout the room are his fault after all. "You know, you should open those," he says, gesturing at the drawn blinds. "Great view of the city. You're missing out."

Compared to the panoramic view of the sky above Asgard and the glittering city of his adolescence (if not his birth), New York is very dull, and its endless skyscrapers and brownstones a sobering reminder of how far he's fallen. "I've seen more than enough of it."

Now that he's got company other than Thor, a hint of anxiety flickers into existence beneath his skin. It's unbecoming and unwarranted, but being essentially unarmed around an enemy, and one whose motives are aggravatingly unclear is not something he's comfortable with. There are no illusions to hide behind; Stark can see  _him_ , insecurities and imperfections far more difficult to obscure without his talents. The effect is not lessened by Stark's insistence on sitting  _next_ to him while he eats. "Do you intend to monitor every bite that goes into my mouth, Stark?"

"Not all of them, no, cause that's creepy."

The 'not all of them' is also creepy, because it suggests that a certain level of staring down his throat is inevitable.

The sandwich is not bad. Comparative to Asgardian fare it is charmingly rustic, and yet the fresh vegetables and interestingly textured bread make for a rather delicious meal. Unfortunately his surprise must be visible on his face because Stark is grinning like a maniac; he's careful to finish the rest of it with an impassive scowl instead of clear enthusiasm. The fires of Stark's ego need no stoking.

It's also not poisoned.

If anything, this makes things even more confusing, because try as he might he can't understand  _why_. They are  _not_ friends, considering that just a few minutes prior he was plotting to make an attempt on Stark's life with a book. If he had a weapon hidden he'd have probably reached for it when Loki was occupied; all the evidence points to the visit being a totally arbitrary act of kindness, and that's the most unnerving conclusion of all.

He's pondering this intently, searching the lines of Stark's face for the truth when the inventor says, "You know, you don't have to stay cooped up in here all the time."

_There_. Perhaps that is his plan: to draw Loki out, in his current state of vulnerability, so that the others may take a verbal swing as well. Or for something more nefarious; Stark is not governed by the same banal purity that drives the Captain. That there is still a possibility of Stark's kindness having an ulterior motive is something he feels more comfortable with; distrust, deceit and lies are the foundation of the world he knows, after all. The hatred creeps back into his tone as he responds. "I do not delude myself that my company is desired here, Stark. This was Thor's idea, and I can't imagine it was well-received."

Stark doesn't bother arguing with this; he was there for the brief exchange of threats that occurred a few days previous. "You'd rather be in jail back on Asgard?"

Encased within a display case beneath Asgard as Thor parades around above with his magic to play with like a child? Or wasting away beneath a layer of smog in a tower owned by a mortal man, surrounded by adversaries, slowly eroding beneath the weight of the  _buzzing_ in his skull?

Throwing caution to the wind as the apathy digs in deeper, he brushes his now lengthy hair back to show Stark the earring preventing the free use of his magic. "It does not matter where I am, Stark." _Not anymore._

Long after Stark retreats with the indication that Loki hasn't seen the last of him (and if he's truly attempting to draw the demigod out he'll be back under the guise of keeping him from starving to death) he remains seated at the desk, stock still, staring at the now empty bottle of water.

It occurs to him later on that the buzzing has grown dull and unobtrusive, fading to the soft pad of falling snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at all that angst! It's only going to get worse, I'm afraid.


	6. Interlude: The Noise (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paranoia and mistrust are the most undesirable, yet persistent bedfellows. (Loki's POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I meant to get this written sooner, and finals got in the way. It was supposed to be posted yesterday, but it's still the 25th somewhere in the world, right?

  
Sleep hasn't come easily for over a year now, and sometimes it doesn't come at all, forced back willfully as abstinence is the only tried and true defense against the nightmares.

Their presence is shameful enough; a fully grown  _prince_   _of Asgard_  (for he can think of himself in no other terms despite being all but completely disinherited) shying away from night terrors like a skittish child, curled into the corner of its bed shuddering, the call for its mother trapped between teeth and tongue. It is a pathetic notion, being the thrall of such intense fear that its plastered itself just behind every waking thought.

But there is no mother to send the demons back to their den, no respite in sight, and it lurks, watching him from just around the corner, when his back is turned. It is a far better master of stealth than he.

So he simply doesn't sleep long enough to dream.

The nightmares find him anyway.

 

\------  
  
  
It is two days before another  _distraction_  arises, and by then the noise has reasserted itself with a maddening intensity that seems slightly louder than before in the wake of the brief period of silence. It may not be real, not entirely; there's nothing like several months without meaningful social interaction and intelligent conversation to trigger the atrophy of a cultured mind. It's real enough, though, effectively precluding any form of rest to be found. 

It's also rather a hassle, keeping up appearances without the use of illusions, and even then there's no amount of careful grooming that can fully conceal dark shadows beneath the eyes -- this is confirmed after a good half hour of personal scrutiny (not in part due to the merest hint of vanity) in the bathroom mirror. To his credit, he does not  _break_ the mirror, seeking the delightful sound of shattering glass -- if only because he balks at the notion of asking Stark for anything, even a replacement mirror. It's not a particularly pleasing sight; alongside the signs of sleep deprivation his hair has grown to uncouth lengths and developed a shaggy, feral roughness to it that's unbearable in the face of his previously held attention to detail. If only he had a blade of some sort he could do something about the  _length_ , at least, but no one's foolish enough to hand over a knife to a convicted criminal, especially a convicted criminal like Loki. 

Perhaps inspired by the brief intrusion into his life he attempts to fill some of the empty hours reading: first one of the spellbooks (this is a terrible idea, a harsh reminder that he has no means with which to practice any of the information being committed to memory, even the potions that can be crafted without magic -- Midgard likely lacks any of the necessary ingredients for it), moving on to staring warily at the confusing jumble of symbols and unfamiliar terminology in one of the physics books from the shelf. None of it is instrumental in lessening the disturbance in his skull, and he rapidly finds himself back at square one: deafening boredom, with all the potential for mental decay that entails. 

Despite his previous bout of paranoia, the one thing he does avoid dwelling on is Stark's previous intrusion, believing it to be a one-time deal after all. There are easier ways to draw a hobbled beast from its lair for sport than befriending it, and although the man might be suicidal in his complete lack of self-preservation instinct he's most certainly not stupid. And with no further interference following the initial one, it's more than likely that with his curiosity sated, Stark will, as the others have, return to keeping his distance from his unwelcome house guest. Which is no great loss, aside from the fact that the culinary abominations presented to him by Thor now seem even more odious. 

So it is a curious thing when, two days later, while he's once again debating the merits of destroying more personal property that doesn't belong to him, the clamoring at his door startles him into dropping the heavy physics book he's holding (thankfully not on his foot although the desire to throw it against the door in retaliation does rise in his chest for a brief moment). The insistent rapping rapidly devolves into a string of insults that's completely uncalled for; Loki's torn between ignoring the man, and decking him upon opening the door for his insolence, but unsavory though it may be, any distraction is welcome at this point. It's bound to be more interesting than ripping pages out of a book. 

As before, Stark's standing in front of his door with an exact replica of the sandwich from before in tow (which is worth granting him access alone). The moment the door creaks open his warm brown eyes visibly light up, an equally warm smile plastered across his face; it's such an earnest, honest expression that not only does it immediately put Loki on the defensive, it's  _irritating_. The possibility of sincerity isn't something he's prepared to deal with. 

He hopes the light tremor of uncertainty (which is oh so obvious to him, at least) isn't too apparent as he responds to the regrettable and baseless taunts used to goad him into opening the door, "Your manner of announcing your presence is the single most infuriating instance of social interaction I've ever been subjected to."

This observation, despite being delivered with as much vitriol as he can muster, only causes the idiotic grin on Stark's face to widen to radiant proportions. Loki has to admit, he hasn't managed to make anyone this happy with so little effort in quite some time. "Is there an official award for this or something? Should I be proud?"

Pissing off the god of mischief is an accomplishment of sorts, but not the kind that comes with any kind of desirable reward. "No."

Stark shrugs. "Too late." 

The sigh that follows is one of resignation; despite his better judgment Stark's insufferable presence  _is_  preferable to spending another afternoon looking for something to destroy.

He doesn't have to admit it out loud, though. 

 

\------

 

As before, the sandwich is delightful (especially in comparison to burnt pastries), and Loki makes a point of ignoring his guest while consuming it in a most undignified manner. He isn't fully unaware of Stark wandering around the room like a curious child, inspecting his effects (and lack thereof) with little noises of disapproval that he's probably unaware of. Loki lets him; if he's content to entertain himself looking for signs of life that aren't there, then so be it.

Stark's composure (and resulting silence) dissolves only a few minutes after entering the room. "Oh come on! Look at this!" He gestures towards the flatscreen set in the wall; following his first introduction to Midgardian  _television_   Loki's  had little interest in using it once more. "This is state of the art technology, and you haven't even touched it."

The memory of three incredibly overdone young women, caked in cosmetics shrieking at each other like harpies flashes briefly through his mind, causing him to shudder. Loki turns to face his irate visitor. "I have no interest in what you pitiful creatures so enthusiastically refer to as entertainment." Nor does he understand how they could consider it entertainment. Terrifying bird women; how uncultured are these mortals? 

Stark actually seems to agree, flinching a bit at the demigod's assessment. "Okay, sure...reality TV is pretty much shit, but it's not all Honey Boo Boo and Bridezillas. Look at this." Presumably the device is still set to the same channel as before; the harpies have been replaced with an oily older man speaking with a scantily clad man in spiked heels; Stark blanches at the sight before rapidly hitting the power button on the remote. "Bad timing. Anyway. You've got access to every station on the planet, not to mention On Demand. Don't tell me you've never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark. That's right up your world-dominating alley."

Unsurprisingly, Loki has  _not_  seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, nor does he understand anything else the man's babbling about. His confusion must be apparent, as Stark continues, not missing a beat. "One of these days, I'm gonna bring popcorn, and we're gonna watch the first three Indiana Jones movies. Not the fourth. That never happened."

His body language is not tense, as expected, but relaxed; his tone is amiable instead of guarded, and for the life of him Loki can't understand  _why_. They aren't friends, not even close; nor does he comprehend why Stark would want to be so in the first place. His previous suspicions regarding Stark's motives have yet to be fully dismissed, but if this interaction is a means to an end it's certainly more involved than it needs to be. "Why?" The word escapes unbidden, but it needed to be asked anyway.

Stark pauses, tossing the remote back onto the coffee table and approaching the demigod with a hint of caution. "Why what?" he asks, innocently; Loki bristles at the thought. 

"Why are you here? Why are you concerned with how I spend my time? What business is it of yours?" 

Stark seems to ponder the line of questioning for a minute, tapping his fingers against his chest idly. "Honestly? I have no idea."

This is a lie if Loki's ever heard one, and he's  _very_  well acquainted with lying. "Truly? I'd hardly expect a man of your famed  _intelligence_  to act with such recklessness without reason." And it is reckless, because Stark is pitifully mortal, standing before him with no visible weapons at his disposal, and Loki could very well kill him if he wanted, even sealed. It takes no incredible feat of magic to crush a human skull. 

If he wanted. It's something he  _should_  want. He can't fathom why the idea is distasteful. 

This is the longest Stark's ever been quiet in his presence, and apparently the interlude's been devoted to making an incredibly stupid decision -- the slightly shorter man seemingly throws caution and common courtesy to the wind, moving to stand directly in front of the demigod as if personal space is just a suggestion. Gone is the silly grin or self-indulgent smirk, replaced by something unreadable. It's not a mask, nor a facade of any kind, and the urge to shove him away rises. 

"You want the truth? Because you're interesting." In an incredible show of both bravery (and stupidity) he reaches out to run his thumb across Loki's cheek, for some reason; the demigod tenses beneath his touch. It's the first time in some time anyone (aside from  _Thor_ , of course, because Thor either does not understand social cues or disregards them entirely) has done so, and been allowed to do so, and the sensation is foreign after so many months of isolation. "You're an enigma wrapped in who knows how many layers of potentially psychotic, anger issue-riddled, self-satisfied asshole, and  _perhaps_  I just want to see what's at the bottom."

Well then.

His tone carries none of the mockery anticipated alongside those words, and perhaps none is intended. Denial is for those with little to no self-awareness, and to deny some of the truth in Stark's words would be folly.Or to ignore the spirit in their delivery. 

Most people, mortal and otherwise, are terrible at lying. The signs are visible, from the aversion of eye contact to the ever so subtle stiffening of the body. In contrast, Stark's bearing is as relaxed as ever, his warm brown eyes full of an overwhelming sincerity that is as unexpected as it is unwanted. Its presence indicates that these words, these gestures might be genuine, and that's something Loki isn't prepared to deal with.

When he speaks again, it's with an uncomfortable sense of defeat. "You will not like what you find, Tony Stark." It's perhaps the first time he's said the man's full name, and the first time he's spoken the complete and utter truth. 

Stark shrugs, affected indifference returning to his trademark cheeky grin. "I'm an inventor. I find value in things that appear to be worthless. Or broken."

Perhaps it is the overall implication itself that he is something to be  _fixed_ that fuels the dissolution of his composure, or perhaps it's the  _smug_  expression on the man's face; whatever the reason black rage boils up within his chest, sending him bolt upright with his hands gripping the back of the chair as if it can be wielded as a weapon. "You are an overly optimistic fool, blinded by sentiment," Loki snarls. "I do not need your  _pity_ , Stark!"

"Good. Because I wasn't offering any." 

The mortal makes a hasty retreat, as if aware of how far he's pushed his unwilling houseguest for one day, taking the empty plate with him; as the door slips shut behind him the resulting silence is deafening. 

Enough that it rapidly becomes apparent once more that the  _noise_  has receded, leaving in its wake a sense of deep peace and calm that gradually slows his heart rate and lightens his grip on the unfortunate piece of furniture. Fingers drift up to press against a point on his cheek, unconsciously, resting there until he realizes what he's doing and moves them, scowling. Insolent  _ass._

Still, he doesn't complain about the mental clarity that allows him to read for the rest of an uneventful afternoon, nor the few hours of uninterrupted sleep that follow. 

Two days later, a loud, raucous rapping at the door startles him out of a bored stupor. Loki doesn't hesitate to open it this time. 

 

\---------

 

There are many things he doesn't understand. The knowledge that can be gained through books is invaluable, but the knowledge of experience even moreso. Some things have to be experienced firsthand to be understood and committed to memory, and even then their complexities remain elusive.

People are very similar.

To Stark, he is the enigma, but it runs both ways. For the life of him he can't read the man, nor ferret out any dishonesty in his words or actions. 

The visits begin to come more frequently, on a more regular basis (sans an actual schedule): at any given time, on any given day, Stark shows up at his door, always with a sandwich in tow, and hangs around for an indeterminate amount of time, sometimes as much as half an hour -- at least until Loki's patience wears thin. Suitable distraction or not, sometimes the inventor is an overbearing, infuriating ass; he has little concern for life skills such as tact, and very often it's hard to resist the urge to throw something at him. Usually Loki just lets him talk, positioning himself in such a manner that he can observe; he's sure his visitor thinks it's the other way around, that he, the caged beast isolating himself within an immaculately tidy cave, is the subject, but really...

Stark is interesting, too. 

Most mortals are silly, fragile things with such a sense of self-absorption and lack of global awareness that they are as babes, creatures in need of guidance. Humanity is a particularly stupid species, at least most of the ones he's encountered, so it's a pleasant surprise to interact with one capable of such brilliance, even though his ego is nearly as tall as the tower they dwell in. However, he approaches everything with such enthusiasm that his flaws are  _almost_  forgivable as endearing nuances, although the Allfather forbid Stark ever find out. While his opinion of the man might be slowly shifting, the demigod makes a point of concealing it. 

And it most certainly is shifting; this becomes apparent as each visit is welcomed not with grudging acceptance, but quiet anticipation. 

Quiet. 

At first, he doesn't want to attribute the occurrence to Stark, because the idea of relying on anyone, especially an 'enemy' is abhorrent. It's a passive realization for the first few visits, the fact that not only does the anxiety and the  _noise_ decrease to a mere whisper both in Stark's presence and following his departure, but the phenomenon persists for some time afterwards. It makes the isolation more bearable, allows sleep to come more readily with fewer nightmares. He wants to write it off as the effects of a distraction, any distraction whatsoever; but the peace specifically comes along as a side effect of the inventor visiting. It certainly doesn't come about with Thor, who still approaches without hesitation and a blind dedication to rehabilitating his 'brother'. In contrast, speaking with his not-brother causes the anxiety to flare up, creeping along under his skin and fixing his face into a stony stare that sends Thor, now dejected, off to bother someone else who appreciates his company. 

No, this unexpected gift is tied to  _Stark's_  presence, for whatever reason, and against his better judgment and desire to remain impassive Loki finds himself craving the visits with a fervor that's increasingly difficult to keep hidden. Even in his tiny cell, it's wonderful to feel alive again, not chained by the creeping madness of imprisonment, in all its various forms. 

One day, he opens the blinds, filling the room with delicious afternoon sunlight, and finally takes advantage of the view afforded to him. 

New York City is an ugly mass of steel, teeming with squalid and meaningless life, a disorganized jumble of humanity...but illuminated, and seen from above, perhaps it isn't nearly as unattractive as he'd initially imagined. The thought, as well as the warmth of the sun streaming through the slats, leaves him light-headed and  _giddy_ , of all things; the moment is brief, but genuine happiness is such a rare occurrence these days that he'll take what he can get. 

In the meanwhile, he listens to Stark talk about technology and drop pop culture references that go completely over his head, and watches the way his eyes sparkle when he speaks and the way his hands run through the mess of black hair crowning his scalp, a brief moment of  _life_  in a mostly lifeless existence that always leaves the room quieter than before when he leaves. 

Against his better judgment, Loki lets his guard down, ever so slightly. At first he responds on a spotty basis, sullen and short-tempered; their sad excuses for conversation are generally one-sided and riddled with insults. There are many ways to call a person stupid, and he goes out of his way to do so creatively. Stark takes the abuse in stride, often returning the volley with his own. It's a dangerous move, but sometimes his own wit is sharp enough that the disrespect is met with grudging admiration. 

And then, slowly but surely, the demigod begins to respond with (guarded) interest. He's not sure just how much he wants to divulge, and to his credit Stark never pushes him  _too_  far; somehow he knows how to respect boundaries, at least in conversation; he still gets way too physically close and says some things that are not exactly sound, in terms of social etiquette. 

And eventually, he responds in earnest, occasionally letting the walls and masks fall away completely.

Perhaps this is a mistake. He's still not entirely sure of Stark's motives, but the relatively painless social interaction followed by a sweet reprieve from the consistent buzzing is worth taking a risk for.  

One night he manages to sleep for six hours; he neither dreams nor writhes in the throes of a nightmare, and upon waking, catching sight of the fierce gold of the sun creeping above the horizon, he finally admits that it just might be beautiful. Maybe.

 

\-------------------

 

The visits become such a regular occurrence that when they cease, abruptly, it's quite jarring. 

The first day is not too surprising; while the gaps between visits have diminished greatly, sometimes occurring on consecutive days. One day is of little consequence, and while the distraction's absence is regrettable it's certainly not the end of the world. He proceeds as normal, devoting a bit of time to perusing the book on human history Stark's left for him. Such fragile, silly creatures.

Halfway through the second day, the faint tendrils of anxiety flare to life within his abdomen. It's not a pressing matter, although it both makes him uneasy and irritated that he's so rapidly grown attached to the visits. Is he really so starved for interaction as to be reliant on such an aggravating individual? 

The afternoon drifts by fairly uneventfully, although the renewed auditory static makes reading a bit difficult. He abandons the venture a few hours later, tossing a spell tome aside in a gesture of frustration; the noise drones on. 

By dawn of the  _fourth_  day he's in Hel. 

The buzzing has resumed, a dull roar in his skull, and he's  _agitated_ , unable to sit still without tapping his fingers against the surface of the table or pacing. It's as if he's back at square one, the first few days of his stay in Stark Tower, except far worse because he's tasted a brief respite from the noise and the anxiety and  _damn Stark_ , damn him for pulling one over on the god of mischief and losing interest so very quickly. It occurs to him that perhaps this is irrational; perhaps something is simply preventing the man from visiting. He is a  _superhero,_ when he isn't hanging around the tower or getting into trouble elsewhere; he assumes this would take up quite a bit of time. Perhaps he's sustained some injury, or is locked in combat somewhere. 

The thought doesn't ease his agitation, for now it manifests as what just might be concern for Stark's wellbeing masquerading as self-interest. What happens if he never comes back? The unbearable -- a return to the nothingness, the stagnation, wasting away in a high-tech cell with only his own thoughts for company. 

At one point he'd resigned himself to that fate. He wonders when that changed. 

The day inches by slowly, each second stretched to the length of a minute, each hour composed of a thousand minutes of unrest; if he wasn't going mad before he's most definitely going mad now. The most irrational part of his mind briefly wonders whether this was Stark's plan ALL along.

It's late afternoon when a light knock at his door sounds, carving through his consciousness like the keen blade of a knife; to say that he immediately sees red is a bit of an understatement.

As always, Stark's standing before his door with some kind of food on a silver platter, cheerful. The moment the words "Miss me?" leave his mouth the demigod slams the door on him. It's preferable to reaching out into the hallway and wrapping his hands around his throat or embedding the tray he's bearing in his skull, and both of those options are quite appealing. 

Stark proceeds to resume pounding at the door like a savage; either the man is a fool or he's aware of Thor's absence to risk such a display. Loki pointedly ignores him, prepared to leave him standing there; if the price is dependence then Stark's company is a poison he'll swallow no longer. "Don't be like that, baby, I'm sorry!"

Suddenly snapping the foolish mortal's neck doesn't seem like such a bad idea. 

Loki opens the door just enough to see a sliver of hallway, Stark's eager face visible in the crack. "Need you be  _so_  very loud and obnoxious, Stark?"

"Yes. They're two of my most endearing character traits." 

This is a lie, but clearly the man has convinced himself otherwise. "You do not possess any," he says, meanly. He moves to close the door on him, but Stark's face sinks into a crestfallen expression. 

"Come on, Reindeer Games. I made you something." Loki takes in the platter full of food, ignoring its bearer. He's still irrationally furious at Stark for his absence, but after three days of pretending to sleep through Thor's greetings he's pretty peckish, and Stark owes him. "Very well."

He's not thrilled to have Stark back in his living space (cell), at least he doesn't want to be. His presence is a source of conflicting emotions that are further aggravating to deal with. Even more frustrating is Stark's demeanor -- as if nothing's happened. Loki turns his back on him, hoping the man will speak his peace, deliver his offering, and then leave him be. 

He must be radiating hostility, because Stark lingers near the door, quiet for a brief moment before speaking once more. "You're acting like you didn't miss me."

"You're assuming I did."  _I didn't._  "To be completely honest, I was quite thrilled to be left in relative peace without the intrusion of a presumptuous, babbling  _idiot_ for a brief period of time. How unfortunate that it is at an end." There's an unnecessary amount of vitriol in the statement, and he's rewarded with the sight of Stark flinching at the words. Good. 

"Damn. You really know how to make a guy feel appreciated." 

"I assure you my attention is quite the opposite," Loki replies loftily before turning his back on him once more. The man must be a glutton for punishment if he hasn't taken the hint by now. Of course, it probably goes both ways -- he should have ejected him from the room by now, but he's feeling extraordinarily petty. That's aggravating too. The entire experience has him behaving in a manner that's uncouth, uncontrolled, and it's  _awful_. 

"...you did miss me." Gone is the joking tone from before; Stark sounds surprised to have stumbled upon that realization. "I'm flattered."

"I  _did not_  miss you," Loki snarls, almost losing his balance as he whirls around to glare at his visitor. "Perhaps I lamented the absence of a suitable distraction, but it has nothing to do with you. One of your mindless compatriots would have served an equal purpose." 

Stark raises an eyebrow. "Even the Hulk?"

"At least the beast does not prattle on without cessation."

Stark's gaze sharpens into a knowing look. "...and Thor?"

This suggestion is not even worthy of a response, and thus Loki does not deign to give him one. He's giving him another critical once over when he notices that Stark appears to be covered in white powder, his clothes disheveled and crumpled as if he's recently engaged in some kind of battle. "Not that it's any concern of mine,"  _because he really doesn't care, really,_ "but might I ask as to why you're in such a state?"

Stark looks down at his clothing, grimacing a bit. "Oh. Right." Holding the platter out before him like a white flag, he makes his (notably cautious) way over to the demigod and handing it to him. "In the likely misguided interest of forging a completely platonic relatio... _friendship_  based on mutual respect-"

He's unable to hold back the sound of open derision, especially in his current state of mind, and Stark sighs, dispensing with the grandeur. "You know what, fuck it. Here, jerk."

The food on the platter is most certainly not a sandwich; it appears to be some kind of roll, still warm from the oven. The smell and texture suggests something sweet, rather than a simple piece of bread; there are small dark spots embedded at random in each piece; upon further inspection it's some kind of fruit he's unfamiliar with. He's not sure why Stark would choose to bring  _these_ , of all things...

The moment of recognition isn't so much a blow to the back of the head, but a whispered  _Oh_ , because he now understands why the bread itself is so familiar in spite of the fruit it holds, and with that recognition comes an entire flood of unbidden memories of a place he can no longer call home. 

_Toddling along behind a slightly older and much burlier Thor, his golden locks swishing over his shoulders, gripping the hem of his shirt so he doesn't get left behind because his legs are longer;  being dragged along for a few steps before his brother stops for a few seconds to allow him to scramble onto his back, holding on for dear life as they flee the kitchens to the tune of an angry maid insisting that they'll spoil their dinner; hiding in the gardens in a stand of bushes stuffing themselves silly with soft, sweet pieces of bread embedded with berries, and it'll be Thor's fault when they're finally caught and chastised, and of course he'll take the fall, because that's what older brothers do..._

He doesn't realize that Stark's still speaking, and has been for some time; he interrupts whatever he's saying with words that are hard to force through gritted teeth. "How did you know?"

Thus far, Stark's facade has been flawless; it is only now that it falters, for only a second; a flash of guilt passing over his face like a shadow before he catches himself. That second is all the demigod needs. "Educated guess?" he ventures; it's a very poor attempt to diffuse the situation. "Found your blog posts?"

"Stark." The accusation is unspoken, but it doesn't need to be. The only way Stark could've possibly discovered his (shameful) weakness for the food is by talking to his next door neighbor who shall not be named, and the knowledge casts a whole new light on the past few weeks of interaction. 

"Okay, so I talked to him," Stark admits. He doesn't sound very apologetic for doing so. "It's not like I could've just asked you." He pauses for a minute, pondering this. "Okay, maybe I could've just asked you. That probably would have been a better option."

If he's trying to cover his tracks  _now_  it's most certainly not effective; because now Loki understands why he's been so  _friendly_  towards an enemy, especially one no one really wants around. For every time he's turned Thor away at the door or refused to speak, Stark has appeared, bearing gifts to loosen his tongue and departing with more expression than he's allowed Thor a glimpse of. Of course. It was always that, and nothing more.

Stark's brow is furrowed in confusion. "So I'm getting the feeling that I fucked up somewhere along the line, but I'm failing to pinpoint where."

This charade is growing intolerable, and somewhere in his chest openly stings (only a little) beneath the weight of the inevitable betrayal. "Perhaps," he says, with incredible restraint, "Your poor choice was attempting to pull the wool over the eyes of someone who  _deceives_  as a profession."

"Goddamn it." Now Stark is also frustrated, possibly because his act is rapidly falling by the wayside. "I knew you were going to be an asshole over this. I don't even understand why you're being an asshole over this. Is a complete lack of gratitude just an Asgardian thing?"

Aside from the spike of rage at the second to last word of his tirade, the suggestion that he's earned anything but scorn is laughable. "Gratitude? You expect  _gratitude_  for keeping me under surveillance?"

"Wait, what?" Either the man is completely dense, or he's really dedicated to keeping it going; anyone else would have cracked and confessed by now. Stark does not do so; he continues to feign innocence, and it only serves to make the demigod angrier. 

"This!" he snaps, shaking the platter for emphasis. "All of this under the direction of that  _lumbering fool!_ "

The expression of disbelief that crosses the mortal's face is one of expert quality; were Loki not so well-versed in his own lies he'd actually believe it were real. "Wait...you think  _your brother_  put me up to this? Seriously?"

Now he gets it. Loki's expecting him to finally let go of the game and start feeding him some insincere apology, so it's a surprise when the first words that leave his mouth are "Trust issues."  _Well, one can hardly imagine why._  "Look," Stark sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I was just...no one put me up to this, especially not your-"

"He is  _not_  my brother!" The demigod explodes; he feels the surface of the chair he's seated in give a bit beneath his grip. "He is no kin of mine, nor I him. Nor do I need a useless reminder of a world that has cast me aside like refuse without cause!" 

All things considered, it comes as an utter shock that, instead of trying to deny his involvement or fleeing, Stark's response is to reach over and snatch the platter of bread from him. "You know what? I'm keeping these. These are mine, because I made them, and you're being an asshole. Assholes don't get muffins." He turns from the speechless demigod, looking back over his shoulder with an air of disappointment. "Also, for the record, your brother has  _no idea_  that I've even spoken to you, and I intend to keep it that way. But if you want to wear a tinfoil hat and think I've been coming here as part of some grand conspiracy, be my guest. Whatever."

He exits with a decidedly petulant slam, leaving Loki sitting at the desk, glowering...and equally confused. 

Even frosted and full of irritating, those warm brown eyes were full of sincerity, not a trace of deceit within them.

There's a very good chance that Stark might be innocent. 

There's also a very good chance that he might have grossly overreacted. 

In which case, he's just managed to chase off the closest thing he's had to a friend (maybe not a friend, just a companion; the word 'friend' is too intimate for a co-jailer) in some time. 

The  _noise_  in his skull is overpowering, filling his ears and assaulting his consciousness, and the anxiety simmers in his stomach. As the waning afternoon fades into early twilight and the rays of sunlight disappear one by one, the demigod sits stock still in his darkening prison cell, staring at the closed door with a sobering feeling of loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki, you done goofed. 
> 
> Again, sorry for the delays thus far. School is hell, as most of us all know. Also, the flashback is inspired by [Derlaine's](http://derlaine.tumblr.com/) wonderful art of childhood Thor and Loki. Loki will stop being a hater soon enough. Possibly. 
> 
> Back to Tony's POV next chapter, plus everybody else, because there are other people living in this tower besides these two.
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone who's subscribed, commented, or left kudos thus far. You guys are wonderful and I love you.


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